


Keep Your Balance

by Closer



Series: Taking Action [3]
Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Character Death Fix, F/M, M/M, Multi, Robots, more incidental zombies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-10
Updated: 2012-09-25
Packaged: 2017-11-13 22:24:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 24,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/508346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Closer/pseuds/Closer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mourning Coulson is harder than anticipated; getting him back, surprisingly, isn't much easier.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Сохраняй спокойствие // Keep Your Balance](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6449080) by [Yomiko](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yomiko/pseuds/Yomiko)



> So I'm not done with this yet but I've been working on it for long enough that I just have to post some or I'll go nuts. I do seem to be developing a habit of retelling stories -- my Suits fic, the Pizzaverse, was good practice for this...
> 
> This is now being translated [into Chinese!](http://www.mtslash.com/viewthread.php?tid=72895&page=1&extra=) You can access the site with username "authors" and passwords "123456."

Clint Barton spent years living on the fringes of society. Before SHIELD there was the circus, and before that the group home in Waverley, and before that the trailer on the outskirts of Waverley, where his father was the town drunk. Nothing had ever been secure; nothing had been certain, not even when the next meal would come. 

For a long time he hadn't known there was another way to live. He knew that he was different, but the idea of having a single home you grew up in -- a home you spent your whole life in, left to become an adult, came back to at the holidays -- was so completely alien to him that he was a grown man before he realized that most people didn't have his ability to simply accept the instability of life. Most people couldn't possibly live with the amount of uncertainty he accepted as normal.

It was painful, but it made him feel strong, too. He was capable of taking what others couldn't. It was one reason he and Natasha had bonded so tightly, because she understood it. He could have brought her in as an asset, let Coulson gentle her to SHIELD the way he'd done for Clint, and left her alone. He'd done it for other agents. Instead, he and Natasha found themselves trusting each other precisely because they both knew how dangerous it was to trust anyone. 

Even with SHIELD, where he'd had a regular job and a regular home and paycheck for going on twelve years, he hadn't taken a day of that stability for granted. 

So when Fury called him into his office one day -- asking him directly, not passing the message through Coulson or his own secretary -- Clint knew change was in the wind. 

"I'm putting together a special operations team," Fury said. "It hasn't been fully greenlit by the Council yet and it may never be. I want you on it."

He offered Clint a laptop (StarkPads were still about a year out) and Clint scrolled through the report quietly, taking it in. 

"The Avengers Initiative," he said. He looked up at Fury. "Avenging what, sir?"

Fury grinned. "Just a catchy name. Half of this game is selling a product that doesn't yet exist."

Clint made a thoughtful noise, looking through the roster of potential members. Himself; Natasha; two other SHIELD agents he knew by reputation but not personally. Someone codenamed Mr. Green; someone else codenamed Favored Son; a couple of open slots.

"You want me to sell this to anyone in particular?" he asked. 

"No. The majority of the team will be made up of outsiders. You and Black Widow are the SHIELD anchors at present; the other agents are in as your backups should you refuse."

"Outsiders?" Clint asked dubiously.

"Natasha and I are cultivating one now; we have our eyes on one more, plus one who isn't listed yet. I just want you to be aware that the position is being offered."

Clint handed him the laptop. "I'm in."

"Anyone ever tell you not to volunteer?" Fury asked, amused.

"Never did get around to enlisting," Clint replied. It wasn't a secret that Fury was ex-military; it _was_ little-known that he and Coulson had served together, but Clint had heard enough to assemble the pieces. Fury laughed, low and quiet. 

"All right. Coulson will have some paperwork for you. Right now Natasha is doing the more intensive work on this, but from time to time I may ask you to evaluate people, inside and outside of SHIELD, for fitness to participate. I don't think I need to tell you how discreet we're going to have to be."

"I understand, sir," Clint said. "As long as you don't send me to the arctic."

Fury cocked his head. "Now why would I do that, Agent Barton?"

"No reason," Clint replied. "But if you do manage to find the guy you carefully haven't listed in this roster, Coulson will kill you if you don't let him in on it. I'm good at seeing patterns, sir," he added. 

"Just one reason you were chosen," Fury said. Message sent and received; Clint was aware he was hunting Captain America, and that the good Captain wasn't even a codename on the list yet. "Report to Coulson tomorrow for your paperwork and a fuller briefing."

Clint considered it -- three of the four SHIELD agents suggested for the team were Coulson's assets. The fourth was Hill's, but he'd been one of Coulson's trainees. 

"Will he be our handler?" he asked. 

"Coulson knows what I know," Fury replied cryptically. "Dismissed, agent."

* * *

When Clint came back from Loki, Natasha didn't tell him Coulson was dead. She didn't need to. He'd heard it over the communications as he was leaving the damaged Helicarrier with Loki in the cargo hold. 

From the moment Loki touched his spear to Clint's chest, when the world went grey and Clint felt himself give in, he'd fought. It had done zero good on the surface, but inside some piece of him had fought and fought, constantly and consistently. He had fought so long and so hard that when he got free -- when Natasha rescued him and after the battle for New York was over -- he was so weary he could barely keep his feet. They'd regrouped and eaten, and then he'd gone back to the Helicarrier and slept for twenty-nine hours pretty much straight through, only getting up a couple of times to eat and piss. That the others and Fury had allowed him to do it was a mark of how tired they _all_ were. 

By the time he was awake and back on a more-or-less regular schedule, Coulson had been cremated. 

"Did someone tell Miranda?" he asked Natasha. 

"Cap asked if he had anyone. Tony didn't know her name. Sitwell flew out to Oregon to tell her, I think," she said, frowning. "He said it was taken care of, anyway. Clint -- you knew they broke up, right?"

"Yeah, but she was still, you know...it wasn't that old."

Natasha put her arm around him, pulled his head to rest on her shoulder. It eased a little of the bone-weariness.

* * *

Ms. Potts came to see him too, which was strange, but she was a nice person. 

"He talked about you a lot," she said. 

"He said you two had a standing coffee date," he replied. "I teased him about having two girlfriends. One's never enough, you know, that kind of thing."

She smiled, which was good, because that wasn't exactly tactful of him. 

"We were close. Happens when someone saves your life, I think. I think I knew more about you than about the cellist," she replied. "He was very proud of you, always. He was pretty upset when...when you were taken."

"How could you tell?"

Pepper smiled, but it wavered. "Tony asked that too. But I think you know."

"Sure."

"Jasper said he looked in your file but you didn't have anyone listed who should be told what happened."

"No," Clint answered. "Just Coulson really. And Tasha. Figured they'd know."

"I'm...I'm very sorry for your loss, Clint."

Clint shrugged. "We're SHIELD. You lose people."

This was why he never held too tightly to people or things. Sooner or later, every life he had was destroyed. He was used to leaving them behind, shedding them like skins and taking up new lives. If this life had been a long one, had been his best and happiest one -- well, it had vanished with finality when Coulson died, and lesson learned. 

Time to take up his new life: Clint Barton, Avenger.

* * *

Stark, surprisingly, made that transition easier. After the second time the Avengers were called to assemble, back when they were still fighting without Thor, he approached Clint in the locker room where they'd been decompressing and said, "Got a moment? We should talk in private."

It was remarkably circumspect, for Stark, which probably meant it was trouble. Clint nodded and pointed at the doorway. "There's a conference room down the hall nobody uses because this whole place smells like gym sweat."

"Shower and meet you there?" Stark asked.

"See you in ten."

In the conference room, which had a narrow window looking out over the dry dock where the Helicarrier was being repaired, Stark tossed him a tablet and said, "Move in with me and be my guinea pig."

"Aww fruitcake, I didn't know you cared," Clint replied, because he was learning ways of dealing with Stark, and one of the best was casual teasing. He studied the blueprint on the tablet curiously. The label read _BARTON - RESIDENTIAL._ "This is a Stark Tower unit."

"We've been renovating. Seems like the ladies and gentlemen of the Routinely Save The World club could have better accommodations than SHIELD is offering," Stark said. Clint glanced up at him.

"I have an apartment."

"Not like this one, you don't," Stark replied, and Clint couldn't argue. "If it makes you feel better, the units were empty anyway. Stark Tower was a statement of purpose. You know what they called the Empire State Building when it opened?"

"No."

"The Empty State Building. It was a symbol more than an actual business venture, and very few of the offices were filled. And they weren't even running on a brand new power source that the ignorant believe could fail and-or blow up at any moment. Point is I was never looking to make a profit on the Tower, and most of the residential floors are too expensive for thrill-seekers and too dangerous for those who could afford it."

"Dangerous?"

"Uh, Iron Man," Stark pointed to himself. "Self-propelled trouble magnet. Anyway, everyone's got a floor. You're the first invite. Well, after Bruce, but you weren't functionally homeless and impoverished when we met. Come stay at the Tower. Pepper'd like it. So would I."

Clint nodded. "Haven't got much stuff. Shouldn't take long. When should I come?"

"Anytime you want. Your place is ready. My AI will let you in and get you settled whenever you show up. I'll talk to the others soon."

* * *

Clint moved in on a Sunday morning, with three boxes and a dufflebag. Mostly the boxes were filled with books, and he was silently grateful for the robot that appeared from nowhere on the loading dock, whistled at him, and pointed with its single arm to the platform on top of its chassis. 

"Guessing you're one of Stark's toys," he said, arranging the boxes carefully. The robot grunted and secured the boxes with its arm.

"That would be Bandit, Agent Barton," said a disembodied voice. Clint knew, abstractly, that JARVIS was Stark's AI and copilot in the suit; he'd read Stark's file. Still, it was a little unnerving. 

"JARVIS?" he asked, looking up and around him.

"Indeed, sir."

"Pleased to meet you. You know where I'm supposed to go?" 

"Please follow Bandit," JARVIS instructed. 

"Like Smokey and the Bandit, right?" Clint asked, trailing the huffing robot into an elevator.

"So I'm led to believe," JARVIS replied, sounding amused. The elevator doors closed, and it began rising speedily. "Mr. Stark has assigned you to the 95th floor. Your parking space in the private garage is number 15. There are a number of amenities on other floors which are open to Avengers and support staff; you may ask for a complete or partial directory of these spaces at any time."

Clint's ears popped. 

"You are, in addition, cleared for access to the helicopter landing pad above the penthouse, as well as full access to the penthouse and limited access to Mr. Stark's workshop. Space has been alotted for you on the Stark Tower private server, and if you wish you may have your SHIELD-issued cellular telephone replaced with a new model StarkPhone, or you may choose to assist Mr. Stark in beta-testing the pre-release model. If you object to any of the furniture, art, or other decorations in your new home, they may be removed and replaced at no cost."

"All the bells and whistles, huh?" Clint asked, ears popping a second time.

"Dr. Banner has described these considerations as 'swanky'," JARVIS replied. 

"You and I, JARVIS, we're gonna get along just fine," Clint said. 

"I sincerely hope so, Agent Barton," JARVIS said, and the doors opened. 

Directly into a living room.

Bandit hooted and rolled out onto the plush carpet, heading for an open kitchen at one end of the room. Clint stepped out behind him, suddenly intimidated.

"When you said Stark assigned me to the 95th floor -- "

"The entire floor, Agent Barton," JARVIS intoned. "Though he did suggest if you felt more comfortable with smaller quarters, you may choose to move to the 86th floor, which is subdivided into two apartments. He felt perhaps you may wish to share with Agent Romanoff."

"No, uh, this is...nice," Clint said, because truthfully, he'd never been _anywhere_ this nice. If Stark wanted to give him an entire floor, he wasn't going to say no. 

"Would you care for a tour?" JARVIS asked.

"I like to explore on my own," Clint replied. "But tell Stark thanks. This is awesome."

"Mr. Stark is available if you would like to speak to him."

"Oh, uh, sure."

"Please place yourself in visual proximity to the television screen."

Clint, wondering if maybe he shouldn't take off his boots, walked over to the enormous screen set into one wall of the living room. It flickered to life and, after a second, Stark's face appeared. 

"Hey, William Tell," Stark said. "Like the digs?"

"They're fantastic, Stark. You sure you want to waste all this on a SHIELD goon like me?"

"Avenger, Arrowhead. Hey, you seen Romanoff anywhere? I wanted to ask her up but she's gone totally off-grid. And if _I_ can't find her..."

"I think she had a solo job for SHIELD. Talk to Sitwell, maybe."

"Sitwell can give me a hand?"

"No, he'll just tell you it's classified, but he'll let her know you're looking for her when she gets back." 

"Well, that's something. Listen, get settled in, sort out your stuff, whatever. You want some company, Banner's up in his lab most days, and if I'm not there I'm usually in the workshop. Drop in sometime, we'll talk small arms."

"Thanks."

"Seeya round, Robin Hood," Stark said and, apparently out of famous archers to reference, cut the connection.

Bandit, having offloaded the boxes, zipped past him towards the elevator, offering him a peace sign with two of its fingers as it went. Clint kicked off his boots, settled into the sofa, and stared at the ceiling for a while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why did I make things harder on myself by _not_ giving Clint and Coulson a pre-established relationship? I thought about it and I've decided that the answer is because I can't have nice things.


	2. Chapter 2

Clint didn't spend a lot of time at Stark Tower at first, just like he hadn't at his apartment. The Helicarrier was really his home, and it had the range he liked. His place at the Tower had a range, but he felt weird using it; it wasn't familiar and he couldn't be positive the walls were properly reinforced against ricochets. He knew the Helicarrier back-to-front and inside-out, and he felt comfortable there. Or he had, anyway. 

Now, however, he was an Avenger, part of the elite. He'd seen it before: the senior agents didn't mix with the rank and file, because it made the regular agents nervous. 

SHIELD -- the men and women who really made up the force -- kept their distance from him now, for various reasons. Those who didn't treat him like a senior agent, didn't respect him as a member of the Avengers, hated that he'd been promoted despite not really being any more qualified than they were, just more visible. And those who didn't fear or hate him mistrusted him as the man who'd led an assault on the Helicarrier. He could understand it, still felt that way himself some days. 

Whispers followed him. _Traitor. Enemy._ He hadn't had an actual reason to watch his back, other than paranoia, in years. He didn't like it. 

And Coulson's ghost was everywhere, from the conference rooms to the file rooms, office to canteen, command deck to barracks. 

When he realized this, when he began to understand that he wasn't welcome on the Helicarrier and he didn't want to be there, he got a ride down to Manhattan, took a train to Arlington, and caught a cab to the cemetery to make a clean break of it. 

He brought a little plastic toy Captain America shield with him, the kind of thing Coulson would have been at once thrilled (Cap stuff!) and horrified ( _cheap_ Cap stuff) to see. He walked out past two hundred years and more of soldiers' graves, to the new field, and found Coulson down one of the last rows of white stones. 

He crouched and set the shield against the headstone, crossed himself the way the Sisters had taught him at the orphanage, and stood up again. 

"Hey, so," he said, hardly vocalizing it, feeling foolish but not sure what else to do. "Brought you a present. They sell 'em all over New York. I hear there are action figures on the way. You'd like it, I think, the whole...Avengers mania thing. I mean, it'd make you totally crazy, but you'd like it too. Your collector cards are skyrocketing in value, let me tell you. Well, the ones -- " he caught himself on a choke, swallowed, and continued.

"And Cap himself's pretty cool. I mean, I don't see him much outside of fighting, but he seems like a stand-up guy. Thought you'd want to know. Done right by me and Natasha, anyway. Though watching him try to talk to women is pretty funny."

He inhaled. "Natasha says Sitwell told Miranda you were gone. Thought you'd want to know that too. I know you two weren't together anymore but it was a nice gesture, I suppose." 

It was pretty quiet. He looked up, away from the headstone, around at all the other soldiers -- some had flowers or flags, some didn't have anything. He should have come sooner, made sure Coulson's grave had something on it. If nothing else, to prove -- 

"I thought I'd shed this skin, left this part behind, but I guess I hadn't 'cause here I am," he continued. "But now I will, promise. The thing is, I was head over heels for you, from pretty much the moment you picked me up for SHIELD. Never seemed like a good time to tell you, or whenever I thought maybe it was, you'd be with someone and I'm not that kinda guy. And I know how much you value professionalism. So at least I was always a professional."

He rubbed his forehead. "I don't really believe in the afterlife or anything, so this isn't so much for you, bein' honest. But it feels like, you know, it should be out there in the air somewhere. Someone oughta say it. Tasha loved you, and so did I, even more'n she did. Or different, maybe. The rest of them might not have known you much but they fought like hell for you. You were loved. Very much." 

Another choke. He inhaled sharply, pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. "I got people looking after me now. Tasha, course, and Stark asked me to move into the Tower. Hulk..." he snorted. "Hulk, he calls me Naked Man, you know that? Banner's pretty friendly when Hulk's not around, too. And Cap's a straight shooter, like I said. Sitwell's my handler, and he's on top of things. So. I got people, and I can't hang onto this forever. I'm here to...I'm saying goodbye. And I'm leavin' you behind. I have to."

He touched the stone gently. "See you round, Coulson." 

As he walked back towards the path down to the gates, he saw a woman standing there; he didn't really want to talk, but it would've been rude not to nod in greeting as he passed. 

"Hey," she said, and he looked back at her. "You're Hawkeye, aren't you?"

"Yes..." God, if she asked for an autograph or something -- 

But her eyes just flicked down the row of stones, to the one with the shield on it.

"I'm sorry for your loss," she said quietly. 

She couldn't know who Coulson was. Nobody out in the world did, just SHIELD and the Avengers. Coulson liked it that way -- had liked it that way. Being in the background, being the man behind the curtain. But Clint supposed it was obvious he'd lost _someone_. In a place like this it didn't much matter who. 

"Thanks," he said, and caught sight of the flowers in her hands. "You too."

She gave him a wan smile. "Thank you."

He nodded and walked on, took the train back to Manhattan, and went home to Stark Tower. He'd have to set about learning the Tower the way he had the Helicarrier; that was some distraction at least. A whole new building to play in. And Tasha was here; Air Duct Tag could be fun. 

"Welcome back, Agent Barton," JARVIS said, as Clint stepped into his quarters, wondering if he had any decent food in the fridge. 

"Thanks, JARVIS," he replied, shucking his jacket. 

"You have a message from Captain Rogers," JARVIS added. "He wishes you to join himself, Dr. Banner, and Mr. Stark for dinner in the penthouse if you're not otherwise engaged." 

Clint thought about it for a minute -- thought about saying goodbye and leaving things behind.

"Sure," he said. "Is it on now?"

"Dr. Banner informs me they will be ready to eat in ten minutes," JARVIS said. 

Upstairs, in the penthouse, the kitchen was filled with noise -- Stark talking, Cap trying to shut him up when he went a little too far, Banner's dry drawl and the slam of the oven door. Over the top of it all, John Denver was playing. _Country roads take me home, to the place I belong..._ Banner's choice, probably. 

"Hey, Target Practice," Stark called, when he saw Clint lurking in the doorway. "Pot pies. Nobody starves in Stark Tower."

"Easy to say when I'm the one cooking," Banner remarked. "Clint, hi. Staying for dinner?"

Cap looked oddly hopeful. Clint gave him a smile.

"Sure," he said. "Won't say no to a free meal." 

"Course you won't," Stark answered, sliding one of the still-steaming pot pies from the baking sheet to a plate. "Have you had the Green Chef's cooking yet? I don't know where he learned -- "

"It's _basic chemistry_ ," Banner protested. "I don't know why you can't master this."

"I have loftier thoughts to occupy me," Stark answered. 

"Easily distracted," Cap murmured. 

"I focus where it counts. Food is just fuel."

"Oh, then you won't mind if you get this one?" Bruce asked, pointing to one of the pies, which was looking dented and slightly singed. 

"I'm not saying I don't like food, I'm saying I can pay someone else to cook it. Or in this case, bribe with promises of fast cars and big labs." 

"I am easily bought," Banner agreed. Clint accepted one of the pies and carried it to the table, where Cap was putting out napkins and silverware. "Tony, get the beer."

Clint had the surreal experience of watching Tony Stark, superhero billionaire, set out a six-pack of microbrew and fuss over the food while Captain America finished setting the table. 

"Something else, isn't it?" Banner asked, nodding at them. "The Steve and Tony Show."

"Little surreal," Clint agreed. 

"Well, come on, while it's still hot," Banner added, and brushed past him to set out a bowl of fruit salad on the table. 

The other three talked enough for at least five people, so Clint didn't make too much effort to participate in the conversation. It wasn't so bad just letting it wash over him while he ate, and the food was the best he'd had in a long time, between the SHIELD canteen and cooking for one. 

Somewhere near the end of dinner, stuffed with chicken pot pie and impressed with everyone else's ability to pack food away, he caught himself thinking of them as -- well, more than colleagues, anyway. Tony, not Stark; Bruce, not Banner; Cap was still Cap but he figured Cap kind of liked that anyway and if he wanted he _could_ have called him Steve. 

At some point he also, apparently, agreed to hang out with them that evening for the continuing modern education of Steve Rogers. Cap seemed really keen on gaming, and Clint found out why Tony and Bruce were so avid about it as well. Introducing Captain America to Legend of Zelda certainly was an experience. He kept trying to play through the cut scenes.

"Here, you do this part," he ordered, shoving the controller into Clint's hands. "It's a shooting thing."

"I'm pretty sure you learned your way around projectile weapons," Clint replied, but he took aim anyway and started firing. 

"Not a big fan," Cap shrugged. "Shield's more my thing."

"Plus five patriotism," Bruce whispered to Tony, who looked amused.

* * *

Thor came back to Earth not long after Clint said his goodbyes. He would have called it synchronicity, all of them finally coming together again, but he was busy shooting at the giant scaly goat things that followed Thor through whatever creepy dimensional portal he'd used this time. 

"I stood Pepper up for this," Cap complained, as he and Clint looked down on the last remaining Bilchsteim from a fifth-floor fire escape. 

"What were you and Potts doing making dates?" Clint asked, slinging his bow over his shoulder and taking out one of the new electrified arrows Tony had made for him, gripping it tightly in one hand.

"It wasn't a date," Cap replied, sounding irritated. "She was going to help me buy some new clothes."

"You're right, that's not a date, that's a miracle," Clint agreed.

"Rude," Cap replied, but he grinned. "You ready to do this?"

"Get me down there and I will knock your boots off. Possibly literally, given the voltage this thing packs. Try to go past it, not into it."

"You worry about stabbing, I'll worry about getting us down," Cap replied, and Clint slung a leg over his hip, holding on piggy-back style. Not their most dignified move ever, but needs must and all the rest. "Three, two, one -- "

They sailed through the air, and Clint had a moment of panic that they had just jumped five stories with no real way of landing, but then the Bilchsteim roared past and he saw his opening. He threw the arrow, arm whipping around, and the blade hit directly between the thing's eyes. There was a terrible smell, like tires burning, just before they landed -- feet first, Cap curling a little to get the shield under them. It took the force of their landing and Clint guessed Cap's legs took the rest. It rattled his teeth a little, but it wasn't really so bad, for a sixty-foot drop. Just behind them, the Bilchsteim crashed to the ground, twitching, and Cap yanked him sideways to avoid the antlers that landed right where they'd been standing. 

Clint carefully slid off Cap's shoulders, went up to one of the horns, which was glistening with some kind of stinking oil, and kicked it.

"It's just not right," he told Cap. "I blame the tourists for feeding them."

"Oh! And Barton wins witty quip of the battle," Tony said, voice distorted through the suit speakers as he landed. Thor dropped down next to him and Hulk knuckled along behind them both, Natasha hanging onto him with one slim arm around his treelike neck. She ruffled his hair as she slid off. 

"Stinking goats," Hulk pronounced.

"I was wrong, Green totally wins," Tony said. He flipped the faceplate up and turned to Thor. "Hey, Endless Summer, welcome back."

"Does he not remember my name?" Thor murmured to Cap.

"Thor," Cap said, ignoring the question. "Good to see you."

He sounded a little hesitant, and after a second Clint figured out why -- if Thor was here, there was a reasonable chance something bigger was brewing. Thor seemed to realize this too, and laughed boomingly.

"No trouble other than the Bilchsteim followed me here," he said cheerfully. Clint noticed he had a large leather pack on his back. "I recited the epic of our battle with the Chitauri for the court, and my father has bid me come here to continue my princely studies with the mighty Avengers of SHIELD. I am declared lord protector of Midgard," he added, and a frown crossed his face. "Father doesn't fully understand Midgardian politics. I don't intend to rule anything." 

"Well, Lord Protector, let's -- " Tony started, but he was cut off by Hulk, who was sniffing his head, big face pushing him sideways. Tony flailed. "Get off me, Limeade!"

"Shiny stink," Hulk declared, allowing himself to be shoved away. 

"You don't smell like a daisy either," Tony informed him, but Hulk had moved onto Natasha, snuffling at her hair. She held very still.

"Everyone stink," Hulk added, then sniffed his own arm and made a horrified face. "Stink!" he roared. "UGLY HAIRS MADE STINK!"

"Trenchant," Clint drawled. Everyone looked at him. "What? I know big words." 

There was a sudden noise, like an inhalation, and where Hulk had stood, Bruce was standing, one hand gripping his pants tightly. 

"Hey, look!" Tony said. "Pants still on. I call that progress."

"What is _on me?_ " Bruce asked, gagging. 

"Bilchsteim!" Thor said cheerfully.

* * *

It seemed, after that, like the days blurred together a little. Clint recognized it for what it was -- the grief he hadn't had time for during the first battle, and hadn't had energy for afterwards. Now he'd let go, not just of Coulson but of that whole decade and more of his life. Being just one of SHIELD's assets. Being SHIELD, for all intents and purposes, because now he really wasn't. Even when they put him on missions, which wasn't that often, he could tell he didn't quite fit. 

He did fit at the Tower, fit better than a human being should among the geniuses and gods. He and Natasha exchanged looks sometimes, reminded that they were the most mortal, the most fragile, but even then he never felt really out of place. Tasha seemed to enjoy it. 

Still, the days passed in a strange haze that only cleared in battle. He did his workouts, sometimes even in the communal gym; he practiced, he explored the Tower, he went to group meals and played video games with Cap and chased Natasha through the ventilation system, but he didn't sleep well at night and he didn't talk much if people didn't talk to him. 

It would get better. He'd lost people before. 

And it wasn't all bad or anything. Most of it was pretty good. Even the day he scared the hell out of Bruce by dropping down on him from above (honestly, nerds were so twitchy) was good for a laugh with Natasha later, after they'd finished all-building hide-and-seek. 

"The look on his face," Clint said, passing Natasha a bottle of water and dropping down onto his couch next to her.

"The look on _your_ face," she replied, imitating his Freaked Out face. "Oh! Doc! Sorry, Doc!" 

"Well, I didn't want him to Hulk out," Clint replied. "Hulk doesn't like me." 

"That's not true. The only one he doesn't like is Thor."

"Ugly hairs!" Clint roared, and Natasha laughed again. 

"What do you think of him, though?" she asked, turning a little, tucking one leg under her. "Bruce, not Hulk."

Clint considered it. "Nice guy. He's got balls, I'll give him that. And the whole rage thing is under pretty tight wraps. Terrible taste in music."

"I think it's quirky."

"Fine, quirky taste in music. He keeps Tony busy. Why do you ask?"

She shrugged. "No real reason."

Clint narrowed his eyes at her. "You always have a reason."

"Maybe Fury asked me to do an updated evaluation on the team."

"Are you hot for the lab coat?" Clint asked. "You are, aren't you? Jesus, Natasha, you really don't like to play it safe, do you?" 

"I don't know, I think he's good looking. And you said he's a nice guy."

"A nice guy who could rip your head off if you get him angry!" 

"Now _that_ is hot," she agreed, and Clint rubbed his face. "Oh, relax. I haven't done anything yet, I'm just feeling things out. He seems trustworthy."

High praise. Natasha didn't trust easily, and neither did Clint. Neither, for that matter, did Bruce. Clint had seen enough little tics in the man's behavior -- the way he avoided doctors and didn't question why Clint did too, the way he dealt with people, the way he watched people when they were angry -- to know that he and Bruce probably had more in common than he'd initially thought. Which made him think Bruce Banner was also a lot tougher than he let on, to survive the kind of childhood that made you wary of doctors and angry people. 

"Don't tell me you don't think he's attractive, I've seen you check out his ass," Natasha continued.

"I look at everyone's ass. I'm a looking person, it's what I do. I look at things." 

"Clint," she said, and her voice dropped down, serious now. "You know I value your opinion."

"Not sure you should anymore," he muttered. She smacked him in the side of the head. "Sorry."

"Don't be sorry, just tell me what you think."

He shrugged. "Look, if anyone can handle him, you can, but I don't really think you oughta have to handle anyone."

"Maybe I like a challenge."

"Maybe you do. And if it weren't for the rage thing I'd say yeah, get down with Doc. But it's playing with fire. Plus, if a thrill is all you want, that's not really fair to him."

"It's not," she said. "But you think I should be careful?"

"Yeah, I do," he said, shrugging. "Can't say he's not durable, though. Out of all of us he's voted Least Likely To Die Horribly."

"I wasn't considering durability," Natasha said, looking at him sadly. Finally, she leaned forward and kissed him on the crown of his head. "Thank you, though. Get some rest, you look tired." 

"Promise I will," he said, and watched her leave.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello readers! 
> 
> I've had at least three people in the past week tell me they're not getting subscription notifications in their inboxes so, as a PSA: if you have gmail and are missing notifications, check your spam folder. A few weeks back I had the same problem and it turned out gmail had decided to declare all of my notifications spam.

A week and a half later, the Avengers were climbing off Tony's private jet in Arlington, and Clint was perhaps having a slight mental breakdown.

He concentrated on being mad at Natasha for sedating him on the plane, and mad at himself for blithely accepting the drink she brought him without suspecting she might have ulterior motives. He could also, if he wanted, be pissed at Tony, because Tony was being _Tony_. Plus it was easier to be mad at either of them than to be mad at Thor for lying to all of them and for getting Clint's stupid hopes up with his stupid jar of stupid glowing light that was supposedly Phil Coulson's stupid soul. 

Clint had _said his goodbyes_. He'd severed the cord. He'd grieved, for fuck's sake, and now Thor was just dicking him around, he was sure of it. Coulson was dead and gone and Clint had always believed that you got one run at life and that was it, no heavenly reward, no burning pits, just death. No magical jar or spear or what the fuck ever was going to bring Coulson back. He didn't exactly love Tony constantly talking about how stupid magic was, but he was kind of on his side. Life was life. Shit like this didn't happen and even if it did, it didn't happen to Clint Barton. 

Still, he'd brought his bow and quiver. Well, there was no reason to live in denial. After all, where Avengers went, trouble either preceded or followed them. 

The shield was still on Coulson's grave. Clint crouched, fighting the tightness in his throat, and crossed himself (old habits died hard). There were flowers on the grave, too, which he hadn't put there. Maybe Natasha had. 

It wasn't difficult to tune out Tony shouting sarcastically at the sky to give him a sign, or Steve's cellphone ringing, but the minute he heard Steve's voice change, shifting into the curt, commanding tone which meant trouble, Clint snapped to attention. 

"Look sharp," Cap said, hanging up his phone. "Fury says they're tracking another disturbance right over top of us." 

Clint snapped his bow out just as Tony's armor came sailing through the air, a jet-powered attache case that Tony caught easily and flipped down, the armor forming up around him. Thor already had Mjolnir out, and Clint got a nod from Natasha when he checked in with her. Bruce was behind her, watching the sky. 

"Uh, guys," Tony said. "They just located the altitude of the disturbance. The readings are the same, but it's not on top of us."

"Where is it?" Cap demanded.

"It's about ten feet down," Tony said.

When the ground below their feet began to move, Clint's training kicked in. It didn't matter that the graves were heaving and bucking like a bubbling stew pot, or that Coulson's headstone was skewing back and forth, the little toy shield vibrating against the stone. The cemetery had just become a battleground, and Clint ran for cover, diving behind the first stable row of headstones he came to. 

He heard Thor bellow in fear and saw the look on Cap's face as the monstrous undead corpses began to rise out of the ground. A part of him was observing that they looked much cooler than most movie zombies, and another part of him was cataloguing their trajectories and likely targets, but mostly he was noticing that they all had weapons. Frequently more than one. 

Thor and Cap just dove the fuck in, Cap without even any body armor, and Clint immediately drew for covering fire. He saw Tony at the edges, keeping the perimeter close, and Natasha was circling around to get the best crossfire. He missed the moment that Bruce went green, but when Thor grabbed him by the collar and pulled him into the air (a sensation he would never get used to but secretly loved) so that he could rain destruction down from above, he could see Hulk ripping through the endless army of the undead.

"I'm spent!" he yelled at Thor, when he reached for his quiver and found it empty. "Put me down near Cap!" 

Thor dropped him back-to-back with Cap, who was holding his own, but just barely. Natasha's guns were still going, somewhere distant. 

"I'm outta arrows," he yelled, bashing a zombie face with his bow. "I wasn't expecting a riot!"

"Start throwing rocks!" Cap yelled back. 

Thanks, Cap. 

A second later, he heard Cap scream _Tony!_ and knew he was losing his backup, but at least there was a ring cleared around them now, none of the undead willing to get too close. Clint cut through them with his bow in one hand and a knife from his boot in the other, barely registering the massive explosion behind him that was no doubt Tony's doing. He heard a thunderous crack and turned, hoping that wasn't the armor shorting out, to see Tony standing in the middle of the carnage, heedless of the enemy, staring at a rock in his hand. 

"CLINT!" Tony yelled, and Clint started running, already aware that something was going down. "CATCH!"

Clint planted a hand firmly on a zombie skull and leapt as Tony threw something in his general direction. He stretched out, reaching for it, and a thin, solid weight smacked into his palm. He landed, rolled, and kicked a zombie in an incongruously horned helmet away from him, looking down at the gritty little object caught between his fingers. 

A key. Dark, ornamental, rusting on one end, but undoubtedly a key. 

"GET THOR!" he yelled, and a second later Thor dropped from the sky, landing on a monster that would undoubtedly have taken Clint's head off otherwise.

"Bag, bag, gimme," Clint ordered, pulling the sack with the jar in it from Thor's shoulders, wrestling it to the ground and yanking it open. His hands shook as he pulled the leather down and grasped the little padlock on the lid of the jar, the lock that needed a key. 

Clint wasn't much for spontaneous action. He actually preferred distance and strategy to close-range fighting and improvisation. Still, there were some moments where you just had to charge in and hope you weren't fucked. 

He shoved the key home, twisting it sharply. 

The click of the lock opening was deafening, and his ears rang as he threw the lock aside, popping the lid off the jar. Light exploded out of it, blinding him. Half-deaf, and with spots dancing in front of his eyes, he stumbled to his feet and turned, catching a zombie just before it swung a spear at him, slicing its arm off at the shoulder. He shoved an elbow into it -- ew, zombie goop -- and it went over backwards.

Clint turned around again, almost afraid, and saw a body lying next to the jar.

He crouched, trying to make sure he was actually seeing this, and then began to laugh hysterically. His first thought wasn't even that he'd come back, that Coulson was lying there in the muddy ripped-up graveyard sod. It was that he was _wearing a suit._

"He came back in a suit!" he blurted, as Cap and Thor closed ranks around him. "Jesus Christ -- "

"Take him and run!" Cap ordered. "Get as far away as you can, we'll keep you clear."

Clint obeyed without even thinking about it -- Cap had that effect on people. He yanked the body up over his shoulder and sprinted sidelong from a crouch, legs protesting, the heavy weight making every step seem slower and harder. It didn't matter where he was going, so long as he was going _away_ from battle, getting the wounded out. He ran until he heard choppers overhead, and then ducked left, leaping a low wall and huddling against a column. He was in the Nimitz Shelter, he realized dimly. Half his brain was wondering if Steve ever met Admiral Nimitz (probably not, Nimitz was Navy) while the other half was _freaking out._

"Please don't be dead, please don't be dead," he murmured, laying Coulson out on the ground, head bowing to his chest. He couldn't tell over the roaring in his ears if there was a damn sign of life. He leaned back, hands gripping Coulson's shoulders, searching for a pulse at the throat. 

Coulson opened his eyes and Clint yelped, falling back on his ass. Coulson practically snapped upright, scrambling back against the wall of the shelter, staring at Clint. 

"Where the hell are we?" he demanded, face darkening in anger. "Who the fuck are you?"

Clint blinked. He'd heard Coulson swear before, but never quite so vehemently. 

A bomb went off in the distance and they both turned. Smoke was rising from the battlefield. 

"Jesus," Coulson said. "Where's my fucking -- the hell did you do with my radio?"

_Oh my God,_ Clint thought. _He thinks we're in Iraq._

"My helmet's not -- _what the Christ am I wearing?_ "

"Coulson," Clint said sharply. Coulson's head snapped up. "Pay attention. It's me. Clint. Agent Barton. You're not overseas." 

"Not..." Coulson trailed off, turning back to stare at the plume of smoke and the choppers circling the field. "Am I...is this Arlington?" He turned back. " _Barton?_ "

"Oh thank God," Clint said, edging forward. "You remember me?"

"I -- why are we -- " Coulson looked shaken. Clint got a shoulder under his arm and hoisted them both up to their feet. SHIELD agents were running through the rows of headstones, heading for them. "I was on the carrier..."

"This is a really long story that you are going to hate a lot," Clint said, walking him around the wall, heading for the agents, one of whom he could see had a medical kit. "Follow my lead. Agent!" he barked at the nearest man, who skidded to a stop and stood to attention. "Report!" 

"Enemy neutralized, sir," the man replied. "No fatalities. Well. I think the dead ones were already -- "

"Yeah, fine, whatever. Ambulance on the way?"

"Three," the man said, as the agent hauling the medikit arrived. 

"Oxygen," Clint ordered, and the man snapped out a portable mask. "Get his pulse, make sure he's not injured. Your only job until I say otherwise is to make sure this man is stable, you get me?"

"Yes, Agent -- " the man said, and then his eyes widened. " _Agent Coulson?_ "

Clint grabbed him by the shoulder. "Get him stable and keep him stable and keep your damn mouth shut or so help me Nick Fury will know your name by the end of the day."

The agent nodded. Clint almost let go of Coulson, but he could see a grey tinge creeping over the other man's skin, and he braced himself just before Coulson's eyes rolled up in his head. 

"Shit," the agent breathed. "Get him down, get him laid out, get that tie off him." 

Clint knelt, holding Coulson's head in his lap, the feeling slowly bleeding out of his legs, until an ambulance bumped over the grass to their location. He helped them heave Coulson onto the bed, then climbed into the back after it, daring either the EMTs or the SHIELD agents to punt him. Natasha was sitting against the far wall, a bloody rag wrapped around one arm, an EMT examining a wound on her neck. 

"Holy shit," she said, staring at them. "We did it."

"Did not expect that," Clint agreed, feeling shocky and not so hot himself. He looked down and saw the cut-off remains of Coulson's tie wrapped around one hand, but his vision was greying out around the edges. 

"Can someone..." he asked, then swallowed and tried again. "I don't feel...can I get -- "

He heard Natasha yell, and decided whatever was happening, she could deal with it; he was going to just close his eyes for a minute.


	4. Chapter 4

Clint woke to the reassuring thrum of engines under him, the steady buzz of a SHIELD minijet. Everything was fuzzy for a second, but then Natasha's face swam into focus. 

"Hey," Clint said. "Did the mission go south?"

"You fainted like a teenager at a rock concert," Natasha informed him. 

"I did not," Clint responded automatically, and then the memories hit him and he struggled to sit up. He was lying on a gurney of his very own, with an IV drip in his arm. "Coulson -- "

"Already on the carrier, they sent him ahead," she said. "He's breathing on his own, pulse is good. We're about five minutes out. Clint, don't -- do that," she sighed resignedly, as he ripped the IV out and sat up. 

"If Medical knows I'm injured they won't let go of me," he replied, trying to stand and staggering a little. "Ooh, head rush."

"That'll happen with blood loss," she replied drily, but didn't scold; just offered him a protein bar. "You were bleeding all over."

"Flesh wounds," Clint said dismissively around a mouthful of food, and then noticed the bandages on her throat and arm. "You okay?"

She winced. "Couple of bruised ribs."

"Those were some really realistic zombies."

"Totally CGI," she replied, and Clint dropped to the bench next to her, pressing his face into her shoulder. She trembled, and when he looked up he could see she was trying not to laugh. 

"So that happened," he said, and Natasha let out a snort. Clint laughed with her, relief flooding him. 

"Where's a chainsaw when you need one," she managed, and Clint _lost it._

By the time they touched down he was feeling better, and he shot a warning look at the pilots to keep quiet as he climbed out of the jet on Natasha's heels. There were a couple of medical staff waiting on the deck but Natasha shook her head and they backed off, letting the pair pass through them. Fury was standing behind them, and he did _not_ back off.

"Conference room," he snarled. "Now."

"Coulson -- "

"Is fine, but you won't be if you don't hustle your asses down," Fury snapped. Clint considered taking a swing at him, but Natasha caught his arm before it even moved, giving him a cool look. The harder he fought now, the longer it would be before either of them could get this over with. 

The others were already in the conference room when they arrived. Steve was smeared in dirt head to toe and looked like his world was crashing around him (again). Thor was blissfully composing some kind of epic, and Bruce was half-asleep, head pillowed on his arms. Tony was a ball of frenetic energy and the second Fury entered the room, he and Tony started going at it like fighting dogs. Natasha sat down next to Bruce, dusting some debris out of his hair, and Clint started to pace. He was a little worried if he sat down he'd pass out again. 

There was a soft click behind him, and Clint looked back to see Pepper entering the conference room. He wasn't sure when she'd shown up or who had called her, but as soon as she cleared her throat, both Tony and Fury fell silent. 

"Phil's fine," she said, and Clint resisted the urge to hug her. "He's a little confused, but definitely not a zombie. Director Fury, I'm going to take Natasha and the boys home now."

"The Avengers -- " Fury began.

"Had a hell of a day, yes, I agree," Pepper said, interrupting him. "Bruce is passed out from being bombed at, Steve looks like he's going to cry, and Tony's not going to do anything but get on your nerves."

"I'm not going to cry," Steve muttered rebelliously. Clint prepared to protest that he was not going any-goddamn-where until he'd seen Coulson, but Pepper cut him off. 

"They need to eat and rest. Clint can stay here," she added, and Clint decided he loved Pepper Potts and would send her flowers or maybe give her a kitten. "He can provide as much information as anyone. The rest of you, there's a Stark helicopter waiting to take us back to the Tower."

Clint was out the door ahead of anyone else, running down the hallway to the Medical wing. When he burst through the doors, one of the medical staff looked up from where she was speaking with a nurse. He knew her, vaguely; Mellin, one of the few he trusted to stitch him up properly. 

"Agent Barton," she said. "I'm glad you dropped by. We had a radio report that you -- "

"Coulson," he said. She frowned. "I know he's here, I'm not playing games today. You take me to him."

"Agent -- "

"TAKE ME TO HIM NOW," he yelled, because he was done with this bullshit. 

Mellin gave him a narrow look, didn't budge an inch, and tapped her stylus against her tablet.

"This way," she said finally, striding away so fast he had to jog to catch up with her. 

Coulson was awake when they reached the windowed doorway to his room, wearing a set of scrubs and sitting up on the edge of a bed, going through what Clint recognized as a neurological exam.

"Make you a deal," Mellin said, putting a hand on Clint's chest to stop him. "Five minutes alone. Then you let me look over your injuries."

"Ten," Clint bargained. 

"Eight."

"Done," he said. Mellin elbowed the door open and led him inside. 

"Dr. Rawls," she called, and the doctor giving Coulson the exam looked over his shoulder. Coulson's eyes raised too, and fixed on Clint's. Clint stared back. "Let's give Agent Barton some time to debrief Agent Coulson."

"But I'm not -- "

"Now, Dr. Rawls," she insisted, and he switched off his little penlight, following her out. Clint didn't move. 

Coulson's skin was still pallid, eyes red around the edges, but he looked all right. No wounds, not even any bruises. Same military haircut, same shallow lines at the corners of his mouth. 

"Agent Barton," he said, and his voice was clear and steady. "Inspection."

Clint stepped forward, holding his arms out from his sides, letting Coulson look for as long as he wanted. This was an old ritual, one both he and Natasha always underwent with Coulson at the end of a bad mission. One they'd done for each other, after Coulson died. 

"Injuries?" Coulson asked.

"Negligible," Clint replied. He let his arms fall when Coulson nodded. "Permission to inspect?" 

"Granted," Coulson said. Clint stepped forward again, standing close to the bed. He studied Coulson's face, the set of his shoulders, the way he held himself -- no, nothing broken. He put out a hand hesitantly and tilted Coulson's head forward, checking for wounds along his scalp. 

"Injuries?" he asked. 

"Does death count?" Coulson asked, raising his head. Clint stared at him. "What's the date?" he asked softly. "Nobody will tell me."

"It's October," Clint said, letting his hand fall. "It's been six months. Almost seven." 

"Loki?"

"Jesus, you care about that right now? You were _dead_ , Coulson. We buried you."

Coulson gave him a level look. "Loki?" he repeated. 

"Imprisoned in Asgard."

"And you're back with us," Coulson said, a question on his face.

"Natasha got me back." Clint swallowed. "How much do you remember?"

"I remember dying," Coulson replied, and Clint just gave up, couldn't take any more of this fucking day; he leaned in and wrapped his arms around solid shoulders and warm skin and held on tight. He felt one of Coulson's arms snake around his ribcage, securing him there, and knew he should be feeling guilty and sorry and a million other things but all he could feel was glad. 

There was a cough from the doorway. Clint pulled back. Mellin was there, and she made a gentle gesture for Clint to step aside. Clint backed away -- let himself be tugged away by her -- as Fury and Sitwell came into the room behind her.

"So by my count, you're accused of direct disobedience, one long stretch AWOL, and several counts of disturbing the peace, plus you owe me for a burial," Fury said. Clint watched them watch each other. Finally, Fury's face broke into the widest grin Clint had ever seen. "You are a something-else son of a bitch, Cheese."

_Cheese?_

"Hey, Marcus," Coulson said, which must have been some kind of code word, because Fury closed the gap between them and grabbed Coulson in a one-armed hug. It didn't last long and part of it was obscured from him as Mellin insisted on sitting Clint down and attaching another IV bag. When he could see them again, Fury was standing back, one hand on Sitwell's shoulder. Sitwell was openly gaping.

"Agent Sitwell's going to debrief you," Fury was saying, while Clint submitted to some injection or other so Mellin could put some stitches in his arm. "You're under observation until tomorrow morning, then Agent Barton will escort you to Stark Tower. Stark's got a bed for you there. All will be explained, probably by Barton," he added, glancing at Clint, who nodded. "I'll stop in again tomorrow morning. Right now I have to go get yelled at by the heads of every branch of the military with anyone buried at Arlington. You all right?"

"Yes, Director," Coulson said quietly. Fury nodded and left. "Jasper. Pull up a chair."

Sitwell just kept staring.

"Agent Sitwell?" Coulson asked. 

"I don't understand," Sitwell blurted plaintively. "The report from Fury is totally confused. There was some kind of magic jar? And the underground atmospheric disturbance. And Thor gave me this...poem..."

"Also zombies," Clint put in helpfully. "Big ugly ones with huge weapons. I think Cap's having some issues with the zombies. By the way, he was _very_ upset when you died," he added to Coulson. 

"That's nice to know," Coulson said, and then turned back to Sitwell. "Okay, let's try it this way. Sit down."

Sitwell fell into a chair, looking broken and confused. He was a nice guy and a good handler and he really didn't deserve this, Clint thought. 

"How are you?" Coulson asked. 

"Your job is _really hard_ ," Sitwell said. 

"I'm sure you were up to it," Coulson continued soothingly. "Everyone's alive, right?"

"Yes..."

"You haven't strangled Tony Stark in his sleep?"

Clint snorted. 

"It was tempting," Sitwell replied, looking a little steadier. 

"But you didn't, which is commendable. Now, tomorrow I'm going to want a report on the attack on the carrier, and any significant events following. I'd like political status updates on the international scene, including reports on any major incidents, upheavals, or assassinations, as well as a full workup of current SHIELD operations and relevant federal ones -- FBI, CIA, NSA. Don't do them yourself, get someone in research to do it. I'd also like to know what happened to my belongings. You take care of all that and I'll get the broad strokes from Agent Barton in the meantime. Sound good?"

Sitwell looked relieved as he stood up. "Yes, Agent Coulson."

"Good. Jasper -- " Coulson added, catching his arm. "I'm sure you did a great job. We'll talk about where we go from here soon, but I'm confident I wouldn't have done better."

"Thanks, Phil," Sitwell said, and left wiping his eyes. Clint pretended not to see. He could tell that Mellin, still working on his cuts and bruises, was pretending not to have heard any of it. 

"He did do a good job," he said, feeling as if Sitwell maybe needed a little defending. 

"I know he did," Coulson replied. "That's why I trained him to replace me."

"Not to be awkward," Mellin said, as Clint opened his mouth to reply, "but you've lost some blood, Agent Barton. I'd like to keep you overnight. Not in Medical if you'd rather not, but you should at least stay for a few hours. Agent Coulson?"

"He's fine where he is," Coulson said. 

"Then I will be going," she replied. "Good to see you back, Agent Coulson."

"I'm pleased with it myself," Coulson replied. Clint waited eagerly for her to leave. He had about a million details to talk about, including the entire battle with the Chitauri and like four since then, but as soon as she left, Maria Hill put her head in the door. 

Clint was, honestly, somewhat tired, and he was used to waiting; he watched Coulson calmly and soothingly put Hill through much the same conversation he'd just put Sitwell through, and before she was even gone another agent had shown up, one of the high-level tech guys that Coulson usually used, and after that it was someone else, and someone else after that -- a parade of SHIELD's upper echelon, coming to visit the prodigal son. 

Clint just resigned himself to resting and watching. They hadn't been subtle coming in, he supposed, and he was sure word was out to all of SHIELD that Agent Coulson was alive and well in Medical. Coulson had been Fury's right-hand man, and everyone knew of him if they didn't actually know him. Plus he'd been training junior agents and assets for years. If he'd thought Coulson's funeral had been crowded, it was nothing compared to his resurrection. 

He fell asleep for a little while, and when he woke again the room was empty and quiet. Coulson was watching him. 

"You missed Agent Michaelson crying," he said.

"I think he cried at your funeral, too," Clint said, standing and stretching, pulling the second IV that day out of his arm. He sat down on the edge of the bed next to Coulson. "For the record, you had a very good turnout."

"I would hope so. Sorry I missed it."

"Me too." Clint inhaled to speak, then exhaled again. 

"The Avengers worked, I take it," Coulson said softly. "Loki imprisoned, all of you living at the Tower. I saw Natasha briefly while you were asleep, she says she thinks it's working. And you mentioned Captain America like you're friends."

"Yeah, we -- after they got me back, we kicked all kinds of ass," Clint replied. "There was an alien army and a couple of nukes involved. But New York's still standing, mostly, so go us. Done all right since then." 

"I have a lot to catch up on," Coulson mused. "Any nasty surprises I should be especially aware of?"

Clint considered telling him about the Captain America cards, but that was all on Fury and he wasn't going to bring it up. "None come to mind. It's mostly good news. We're working as a team."

"How's Tasha?"

"You saw her."

"Sometimes you get to see things I don't." 

Clint nodded, acknowledging the truth of it. "She's all right. Settling in. Never takes her long to adapt. Hey, I have to ask..."

Coulson looked resigned. "Yes?"

"Cheese?"

The resignation turned to surprise. "That's what you're asking?"

"I am dying to know," Clint informed him. 

Coulson shook his head. "Old Army nickname. Which you are not, by the way, authorized to use."

"Yes, sir," Clint said with a smile. Silence fell, and he looked down at his hands. "I feel like I should say I'm sorry."

"But?"

"I've spent seven months trying to convince myself it wasn't my fault. Mostly succeded."

"It wasn't," Coulson replied. "He took you. I blamed him, not you."

"You still ended up dead."

"Temporarily." Coulson rubbed his left wrist with his right hand, thoughtfully. "I don't want an apology from you. Guilt would be frankly exhausting. We're both soldiers. We know the risks."

Clint nodded, then snorted. "Tony keeps insisting none of us are soldiers."

"It's 'Tony' now, hm?"

"He's not so bad as long as you're not trying to get him to do something he doesn't want to do. And we have Cap for that."

"And Rogers? How's he managing?"

"Better, I suppose. Tasha thinks he has a thing for Pepper, but he's a good guy, he won't do anything to upset the team."

"How very high school."

"You ain't heard nothing yet. Bruce and Tony introduced him to Tetris. Funny story about that, tell you some other time."

"How are you?" Coulson asked, no change in tone. 

"You know me. I always get out alive."

"Clint."

Clint glanced at him. 

"You look exhausted," Coulson said gently. 

"I fought an army of zombies today," Clint pointed out.

"I know mission fatigue from trauma. Is this fallout from Loki, or something else?" 

"Is that your way of asking if some _other_ terrible thing happened to me?"

"This is my way of asking how bad the last terrible thing was."

"Not so bad I wasn't surviving. The team looks after me. Sitwell makes sure I'm competent in the field."

"Good," Coulson said. "The rest can wait. I'm going to sleep -- you should try and do the same."

"Here?"

"No, I know how well you sleep in Medical. Grab a room in quarters, get some real rest."

"You're not boss of me," Clint said, but he smiled at Coulson.

"Don't imagine I won't be, eventually. Whatever I work out with Fury and Sitwell, you and Natasha are mine."

Clint slid off the bed, but he didn't turn. He clenched his hands into fists. "Good to have you back, sir."

"Thank you for bringing me back, Agent Barton."

It was like the time he went to the gravestone; Clint swallowed hard against the choke in his throat, unable to say anything else, and walked away feeling drained. 

But at least this time he was walking away from a person.


	5. Chapter 5

By the time Clint woke the following morning, curled up in one of the hard, tiny beds on the carrier, Coulson had clearly already been up for hours. Clint walked into his room in Medical to find him sitting at a small table, wearing SHIELD issue civs, wrapping up a debrief with Sitwell and Fury. He had a StarkPad in his hand and there was a duffle bag under his chair. Fury glanced over his shoulder at Clint.

"Your ride's here," Fury said. "Barton."

"Yes, Director."

"You are officially assigned to Agent Coulson as open shadow until further notice."

"Yessir," Clint said, pleased. Open shadow meant Coulson knew and was probably okay with Clint essenially following him everywhere. It also meant he wouldn't be pulled for anything, possibly even Avenger business, until Fury closed his order.

"Coulson will brief you on the procedure for his return to active status. Believe it or not, we have protocols for sudden resurrections." 

"I remember Operation Future King, sir," Clint said, not a hint of amusement in his voice, but Fury still gave him a look. The colossal failure of the SHIELD psych staff to anticipate Cap's break for freedom when he awoke was a source of much amusement among the upper levels, but Clint wasn't quite high up enough to joke freely with the Director about it.

"He gets so much as a papercut, I want to hear about it," Fury said in his ear, as Coulson gathered up his bag and stood. Clint gave him a nod. 

Five minutes later they were in a SHIELD minijet, skimming over Manhattan. Clint could see Coulson looking down on midtown, studying the damage -- a lot of it was still visible, though mostly these days it was scaffolding and construction cranes. The hastily-assembled temporary train platforms outside of Grand Central, the occasional empty foundation here and there where they'd had to implode an over-damaged building, the fresh construction work on Stark Tower -- Coulson took it all in with his usual blank serenity, though Clint saw his hand tighten where it was braced against the wall of the jet. 

He stood back and let the others crowd around Coulson when they landed. He'd had hours with him, after all, and they deserved a chance to say their proper hellos. Natasha looked like she was anxious to look Coulson over, so he leaned forward and murmured in her ear. "I did inspection. He's fine."

She nodded. "Thanks."

Something had her high-strung, and Clint could see that whatever it was, it was affecting Steve, too -- the pair of them kept dancing around each other, Steve looking vaguely guilty. Another few minutes and he'd worked it out: she must have said something to him about the whole Pepper situation. He'd have to grill her about it later. 

Coulson caught his eye over Tony's shoulder, and Clint glanced down at Coulson's hands. They had been hanging loose, but now one formed a fist, index finger extended, and then he pulled in his index and extended his thumb. Old SHIELD code; _get to the safehouse._

"Tony, you said you had an apartment for him, right?" Clint asked loudly. Tony glanced at him.

"Sure, guest rooms for now -- but if you're staying on we'll fix you up somewhere," Tony said, catching Clint's meaning and downshifting smoothly. He started walking, speaking aimlessly about the reonvations to the Tower, and the others just turned like a flock and followed. Steve might be the leader but outside of battle the Avengers often took their cues from Tony. By the time they were in the elevator, it was just Tony, Clint, and Coulson. 

"So, dinner tonight," Tony said, as it descended. "Welcome Back To The Land Of The Living party. La Vaca Rojo, eight o'clock. Meal's on me. You up for it? Of course you are. They do a great lamb's brain fricassee."

Clint and Coulson both stared at him.

"Zombie joke. Too soon? Okay," Tony said, leading them into one of the empty apartments. "Anything you need, ask JARVIS. He's monitoring your vitals. We got Bruce on call in case you need basic medical."

"I hear Loki threw you through a window," Coulson said. It sounded like a random observation but felt like something more. Tony went still. "Thank you for looking after the team."

"Cap's the den mother," Tony said, but his voice sounded strained. "I just pay the bills."

Coulson gave him a mild, skeptical look.

"Anyway, I'm going to -- important stuff to invent, possibly destroy..." Tony jerked his thumb at the elevator and hurried away, looking both pleased and embarrassed. Chalk another one up for Coulson, Clint thought; so far he'd managed to calm the fraying nerves of SHIELD's entire senior command _and_ Tony Stark, with just a few well-placed words of praise. 

"It's spooky when you do that, you know," Clint said, going to the kitchen. Fridge full of food; JARVIS was ever-thoughtful.

"Do what?" Coulson asked with a smile. Clint grinned back.

* * *

Clint was really looking forward to dinner that night. Not least because Natasha had confided to Clint that she'd spoken to Steve, and was now under the distinct impression that Steve Rogers was hot for Pepper _and_ Tony. Clint was eager to see the train-wreck of the three of them together. 

He wasn't a cruel man and he'd never have teased them about it or told anyone else, but he also had the kind of mind that could stretch a threesome with Captain America into at least forty minutes of non-stop jokes with Natasha. 

It felt good to want to laugh again. 

"I ain't sayin' he's a gold-digger," he said, as they played cards in Coulson's living room while Coulson slept in the other room, "but he ain't messin' with no broke 'vengers."

"You're running out of steam," she replied. "That was awful. And you are holding nothing."

"Ha! Four aces," he said, laying his cards down. She laid down two kings and three aces. "Dammit, Tasha." 

Poker between them was usually more about who could cheat best than about luck. 

"So," she said, gathering up all seven aces and shuffling them into the deck. (Because why not?) "Are you going to talk to Coulson?"

"Bout what?" he asked, and then caught her look. "Come on."

"I'm not pushing, I'm just asking," she said, dealing him a shit hand from the bottom of the deck. 

"I have a long track record of not talking to him that I'd hate to break now," he said, shooting one of his shit cards under the deck as she put it down. "You only gave me four cards."

She let him get away with it, offering him a card from the top of the deck. 

"Not everyone gets a second chance, you know," she said.

"I think I'm on chance four or five by now."

"All the more reason to revisit the idea."

"Of talking to him? I think I'll keep pushing my luck." He shrugged. "Why ask for what I'm probably not going to get? I like what I have now. He's back, and he told me he's going to ask for us back from Sitwell." 

She gave him a rare smile. "That's good news." 

"And he's dealing with enough crap right now. He's just sailing through it all, you know, big-deal-I-died, but I swear everyone else around him is having nervous breakdowns about it. Even Fury was all weird." 

"Which one of us are you now convincing?" she asked. 

"I'm sharing intel. On the off-chance it turns out he came back evil, you need a full view of the situation." 

"If Coulson came back evil, none of us would still be walking around alive."

Clint fell silent at that, laying his cards on the table. Another loss. He shuffled the deck and began cutting it one-handed. 

"When he came back, in Arlington, he thought he was in Iraq," he said. "He freaked out when he couldn't find his radio or sidearm."

"I'd freak out too."

"It was weird. Seeing Sergeant Coulson. I keep wondering if that's what he's really like, and Agent Coulson's just an act."

"People change. That was what, twenty years ago for him? I bet if you could meet yourself from twenty years ago you'd be _appalled_."

"I was awesome twenty years ago," Clint declared. "I had the flashy purple circus costume and my own horse and everything."

"Well, now I'm appalled." She cocked her head at him. "So, no, huh?"

"No."

Natasha shrugged. "Your call."

* * *

Dinner was everything Clint dreamed of and more. Between Bruce swallowing his tongue when Natasha broke out her "seducing wealthy dictators" dress and Steve spending the entire night trying not to make eye contact with anyone, he had more than enough to entertain himself with. 

Right up until Tony opened his big mouth.

"I have always believed you get one shot at life, and when the electricity goes out, the windows go dark," Tony said, leaning back, one arm around Pepper in the chair next to him. "You are shaking my atheism to its core, Coulson, and I can't afford that. So tell me, because nobody else here has the nads to ask. Heaven? Hell? Could you see us when you were in the jar? We should have taped a newspaper up or something for you to read." 

Clint tensed, ready to strangle Tony, but Coulson just gave him a little smile. "I don't remember it. Nothing after dying."

Clint glanced at Steve, who looked like he was containing some large emotion. 

"You remember dying?" Pepper asked, sounding half-interested, half-horrified. Clint could see why she was dating Tony. 

"Oh yes. Cold, then struggling for breath. I remember feeling my heart stop and thinking that wasn't good," Coulson said. Clint cast around for anything to distract himself with, because of all the things he _never wanted to hear_ this topped the charts. "Then nothing until yesterday. I feel pretty well-rested. And there's an entire season of Hoarders to catch up on."

When Clint looked back at him, he was watching Clint. He was pretty sure that joke was meant for him. Very few people knew of Coulson's discreet love for reality television, but if the Avengers knew, that must mean Coulson trusted them -- approved of them.

This was going to kill Clint, sooner or later. 

He kept quiet for the rest of dinner, through the toasting and the lighter talk and the practical parade they had to make of leaving the restaurant. Tony and Pepper abducted Steve into being their designated driver, but the rest of the Avengers piled into a limo driven by Tony's chaeuffer -- Happy was good people, Clint liked him -- and enjoyed peering through the windows, watching pedestrians stare as the limo drove past. 

He could hear what his brother would say: _you're doing all right for poor white trash from flyover country, Clinton Francis_. He allowed himself to bask just a little in all of it. He was a top agent of SHIELD, he was an Avenger, he was famous and beloved by the citizens of New York. 

His internal radar picked up the words "firing range" from the rest of the limo, and he turned around with a curious, "Hm?"

Coulson was next to him, body canted slightly to talk to Tasha, and he glanced over his shoulder with a faintly amused look before turning to face him.

"I need to get requalified on firearms," he said. "I was asking if the Tower has a range."

"Kind of a shitty one compared to SHIELD," Clint said. "Should be fine, though."

"Good. 1300 tomorrow?"

"What?"

"I can requalify as long as two active agents are present. Technically, out of the Avengers, only you and Natasha are on the books. If there's a decent range at the Tower, and the two of you sign off..."

"One step closer to going back on the active rolls?" 

"Something like that," Coulson agreed. 

Clint's guts clenched at the idea, though he blamed it on the rich food from dinner. Certainly there was no reason he ought to be upset Coulson wanted back into SHIELD. Clint wasn't the kind of man -- they weren't the kind of people -- to let death scare them off the job. Their own or anyone else's. 

It was a little different when the man you may as well have killed yourself wanted it.

* * *

Open Shadow meant that Clint should stay close, if he could; it meant he could sleep on Coulson's couch, or at least try to. That night he got a few scattered hours, but mainly he just stared at the ceiling, listening to Coulson breathe through the half-open bedroom door. 

It wasn't death that scared him, he decided around seven in the morning. It was that he'd gone through that once already, that mourning, and the idea of repeating it filled him with dread. Particularly with the terrible hope he'd now have, the hope that if Coulson came back to them once, he might again. He wouldn't be able to let go again. He shouldn't have, last time. 

He ran his hands through his hair, gave up on sleeping any more, and got off the couch to make breakfast. Coulson was a morning person; he'd be up soon, and he'd appreciate the food.

Clint stopped at the bedroom door as he passed it, looking in. Coulson was curled on his side, a white t-shirt stretched over his shoulders above the blankets. The fabric was taut against his back and Clint looked away hastily. 

By the time Coulson came out of the bedroom, Clint had a stack of pancakes ready. He was a decent cook, not Bruce's level but comfortable with the basics, and he pushed them across the counter of the kitchen as Coulson settled in. 

"I could get used to that," Coulson said, picking up a fork.

"Me in your kitchen?" Clint asked lightly. 

"Pancakes on awakening." 

"I'm hurt, sir," Clint said, standing on the other side of the counter, dumping maple syrup all over his own plate. 

"Should have thought of that before you gave me the pancakes," Coulson replied. "Plans for this morning?" 

"Depends on you. Long as you're in the Tower I can lengthen the leash a little, if you want."

"I'd appreciate it. I need to speak to some of the team today one-on-one."

"Strategizing?"

"You see well from a distance. Tell me what you think."

Clint regarded him. "I think you need to take some temperatures before you decide if you're getting the Avengers back. You need to know where they stand before you figure out where you do." 

"And where do they stand?"

"Mostly behind you, if that's what you want." Clint shrugged. "Tony's more comfortable dicking you around than Sitwell, if pattern holds. You don't fold. Sitwell does sometimes and it makes Tony feel like a jerk. Makes the rest of them wonder if they can trust him to back their calls. Thor went through an awful lot to get you back. Bruce can't speak for Hulk, but I don't imagine anyone can. Cap's the wild card, but he's a soldier. And you know me and Tasha." 

"So Rogers is where I need to focus?"

"Him and Banner. Hulk's not logical but Banner is, and the team's integrity outside of missions is his concern. Banner and Cap are the ones keeping Tony in line, too." Clint glanced at him, then looked away quickly when he saw Coulson watching him. "Guess the question is whether you want us back."

"Why wouldn't I?"

"We got you killed."

"Line of duty," Coulson said. "Plenty of SHIELD agents died that day."

The bluntness surprised him; everyone else had tiptoed around it, at least with him in the room. Yes, he had assaulted the carrier, and a lot of people had died because of him. Phil Coulson among them. But Coulson's gaze was still steady and blank, no hint of anger or pity. 

"This is an opportunity to be part of something bigger than any one of us," Coulson said. "It's a new challenge, at least for me, and you know how easily I get bored."

Clint snorted. 

"Fury approached me at the very start of the Initiative, asking if I wanted to be involved. I said that it was conditional on you and Natasha being considered as active agents. He said you were already under consideration. If I'd had any doubts, they ended there. Alongside a man in a gold-alloy war suit and the pipe dream we had of finding the world's first and last super-soldier, Fury was willing to put the best and brightest of ordinary humanity into the mix. I wanted to be part of that. Now, seeing all of you together, I still do." Coulson set his fork down. "I know what I want. Trick is getting it. Thanks for the consult," he added, standing. 

"Want me to clear out for a while?"

"Just for the morning. I'll notify you if I need to leave the Tower, but I don't anticipate it. Otherwise, I'll see you at thirteen hundred in the range." 

Clint nodded, using the excuse of half-finished pancakes to stay in the kitchen while Coulson left. Once he was gone, Clint pushed his food away, found the nearest ventilation shaft, and hiked himself up into it, switching on the little maglite he carried for easier navigation. 

"JARVIS, where's Steve?" he asked.

"Captain Rogers is in the gymnasium," JARVIS answered, voice muffled by the insulation. 

"And Agent Coulson?"

JARVIS sounded amused. "Heading for the gymnasium, Agent Barton."

There was a sudden buzz, and as Clint turned a corner he found himself face-to-face with a tiny red light. He dropped his maglite in surprise. 

"Uh, JARVIS?" he asked. "Did Tony install lasers in the air ducts?"

"That would be Smokey, Agent Barton."

In the dim illumination from the maglite, Clint could see that the machine blocking his way was a small, round object with four long arms, each stuck to a corner of the vent. It was bobbing slightly, the little red light bouncing up and down.

"I'd like to repeat my question," he said, eyeing the thing. "Does it have lasers?"

"Infrared camera only," JARVIS answered. Smokey stopped bobbing and lowered one arm. Clint realized it was waving at him. He waved back, and it beeped cheerfully and retracted into a corner, giving him enough room to pass. 

"Why does Tony have robots crawling around in the air vents?" Clint asked, picking up his maglite and continuing his journey. 

"I believe he was inspired by an episode of Doctor Who," JARVIS answered. Clint bumped his head on the low ceiling of the vent shaft. 

"Your boss is a dork, JARVIS. Don't get me wrong, he's a loveable dork, but he's a dork. You can tell him I said so. Also, if he doesn't invite me next time he watches Doctor Who, I'm going to dress Dummy up like a Dalek for Halloween."

"Unfortunately, it would not be the first time," JARVIS sighed. 

"So why is the robot here, again?"

"Sir is very keen on monitoring systems, Agent Barton."

Clint paused, looking over his shoulder at Smokey, who was following him. "He put a robot in the vents to keep an eye on me and Tasha."

"I believe there was some concern expressed that, should one of you be injured or trapped, particularly in areas where my own surveillance is absent -- "

"Right. Got it." Clint inched forward on his elbows. Smokey prodded him in the ass. "We must seem pretty funny to you," he continued. "Fragile little mortals running around after each other."

"My primary concern is the health and comfort of my registered users," JARVIS answered. "Disdain would hardly be appropriate in that situation. If you turn left at the next junction, Agent Barton, you will take three minutes off your transit time to the gymnasium."

"How do you know where I'm going?"

"I'm artificially intelligent, but I am still intelligent," JARVIS replied. 

"Fair enough. How come you never tell me this stuff when Tasha and I are chasing each other around?"

"That would defeat the point of the competition."

"Sometimes," Clint grunted, pulling himself up through a vertical pass and then turning left, "it's really evident that Tony Stark programmed you."

"Thank you," JARVIS said. He was silent for a while, as Clint moved through a speaker dead zone, Smokey clicking along behind him. When Clint emerged, JARVIS buzzed, the AI equivalent of clearing his throat.

"Captain Rogers added Agent Coulson to his head-count register this morning," he said. 

"Does he know we know about his creepy paternal head count thing?" Clint asked. 

"Knowing Captain Rogers as you do," JARVIS replied, "do you really believe he would be embarrassed if he did?" 

"Point." 

"And as you are currently stalking Agent Coulson -- "

"I'm assigned to him. It's the job."

"Just as you say, Agent Barton," JARVIS replied. Clint considered that JARVIS had never really answered his question about whether the AI found them amusing. 

He pulled up to the grate of the vent overlooking the gym just in time to see Coulson walk in. Behind him, Smokey gave a soft whistle and disengaged his crawling arms, curling up in the small of Clint's back as he watched Coulson gently, subtly bring Captain America around to his way of thinking.


	6. Chapter 6

"You were right," Coulson said, as Natasha began laying out the guns for Coulson's arms requalification that afternoon. 

"About what?" Clint asked, clipping up the target, sending it zipping down the firing range.

"This range is shit," Coulson said. Clint glanced at Natasha. She shrugged. 

"Stark's working on a better one. Blueprints, anyway," she said, her voice even. "He's easily distracted." 

"I can fix that," Coulson replied, stepping up to the table. 

"You know the drill," Clint said, shoving his hands in his pockets. "We run through 'em. Pick two, Tasha will pick the third. Qualification per SHIELD guidelines. Cakewalk, boss."

"Yes," Coulson agreed, and for a second he seemed to hesitate. Then he reached for the first gun, picking it up and checking the clip. Clint barely listened, letting Natasha handle the boring parts as Coulson identified each weapon, caliber and make. He set two aside as he went, both relatively small, the ones Clint knew he preferred to carry -- efficient, deadly, and compact, unlikely to ruin the line of a suit. When he was done, Natasha picked the third weapon to test him on: a large-bore rifle, the kind carried only on very specific missions. Natasha watched from the side and Clint from behind as Coulson stepped up to the mark. 

It wasn't until Coulson was halfway through the qual on the first gun that Clint realized something was very wrong. His breathing was tight and tense, and his aim was all over the place. He looked at Natasha, whose brow was furrowed. Coulson readjusted his grip and kept firing, but it didn't help. According to the digital readout he was still qualifying, but Clint knew Coulson was better than his score was showing. 

The readout beeped: qualified with ten seconds to spare. Coulson drew a breath, set the gun down, and began checking over the second one -- then changed his mind and picked up the rifle. Natasha set up the second target and hit the timer. 

He did a little better with the rifle, but still not up to his usual, and all three of them knew it. He took his time laying out the shots, and they were still going wide of center. He fumbled a reload, and nearly missed on his next shot, which would have disqualified him from even re-taking the test for two weeks. 

Clint, on instinct, suddenly stepped to one side, out from directly behind him. Coulson's breathing eased. After two shots Clint moved again, silently, and Coulson tensed as he stood behind him. 

When the timer buzzed, he was only two points over basic qualification. Natasha shifted uneasily as he picked up the third gun. 

Clint cleared his throat as a warning, then reached out and rested his hand on the back of Coulson's neck. He flinched away from the touch, just barely, then stilled. 

"Boss," Clint said, stepping up close. Coulson stared forward rigidly. "Hey. It's just me," he said in his ear. "Nobody here but us chickens."

Coulson's lips twitched. There was a faint hint of sweat at his temple. 

"Nobody behind you 'cept the ones supposed to be there. Promise," Clint murmured. The minute trembling in Coulson's shoulders eased. "Here on out, we'll have your back. You got this."

He slid his hand down, resting it between Coulson's shoulderblades. Without warning, Coulson's arm swung up and he fired -- one-two-three-four-five, straight into the center of the target, so fast it took Natasha a shocked second to start the timer. Six-seven-eight-nine-ten, clustered in the bullseye in the body mass. Eleven-twelve in the head. Coulson popped the clip and replaced it efficiently, and one-two-three-four-five again in the body mass. 

He hit the minimum-qualification line with fifty seconds to spare. 

Clint stepped back, taking his hand away, and let Coulson run through the after-fire check, recite from rote how to clean and reload. Coulson signed the the tablet with the stylus when Natasha cleared him, and Clint signed too, adrenaline (Coulson was _really fast_ ) still pumping a little in his veins. 

"So, we buying you a kevlar backplate, sir?" Clint asked, tapping the tablet to save-and-send. "Tony's probably got some superlight stuff you can use."

"No," Coulson said. His voice was its usual flat, pleasant tone, but his eyes were amused. "I don't think I'll require that." 

Natasha jabbed Clint in the kidney with the stylus as she left. He casually rubbed his back under the pretense of stretching, then started unpacking a cleaning kit.

"I can do that," Coulson offered. 

"Nah, I'll handle it. I want to go over the rifle anyway," Clint said, sitting down at the table. Coulson leaned next to the wall, just in his field of vision. 

"I'd like to discuss my reintegration protocols with you," Coulson said. "Tonight, if you're free."

"Fine by me." Clint glanced at him. "You sure you want this?" 

"I've considered the problems. Some of the politics will be difficult; not everyone likes the Avengers. The insurance companies have been agitating for your after-action reports. Apparently, early on, they decided they could literally classify the Chitauri damage as an act of God. Technically it's not incorrect."

"I followed that. Tony's lawyers got the governor to declare Loki a foreign terrorist."

"New York premiums have gone up."

"Well, it's expensive to live in the city, everyone says so," Clint said, and Coulson cracked a small smile. 

"Tonight," he said, pushing away from the wall. "1900 hours. We'll have dinner and talk." 

"I'll bring my special note-taking pen," Clint replied, watching him leave.

* * *

Dinner turned out to be what Clint and Natasha had always called Pasta ala Coulson, a dish they'd eaten many times in various safe-houses across the world. Clint was never positive what went into it, if it even had consistent ingredients. It was thick and savory, and there were vegetables, definitely, and usually some kind of noodle or, on special occasions, ravioli. Comfort food of a sort; their kind of comfort food, anyhow. Coulson had his jacket and tie off, sleeves rolled up as he served, and for just a minute Clint let himself appreciate the casual nature of it. The way things could be, if other things were different. 

"I've spoken with Fury and Sitwell," Coulson said while they ate. "It's not exactly what I'd intended, but I think we have a workable arrangement."

"But you're getting us back, right?" Clint asked. "That was the deal."

"I was about five hours out from being dead when I said that," Coulson said, looking almost guilty. 

"Are -- you _not_?" Clint asked warily. 

"I'm taking over handling the Avengers, with Sitwell as secondary support," Coulson said. "For solo missions, he'll remain your handler and Natasha's, and Captain Rogers' as well."

"What about the others?" Clint said, feeling stung. "Do you get them?"

"It's not a custody battle," Coulson replied. "Stark won't take a solo handler, and neither will Thor. Banner won't take solo jobs at all. Technically, we can't make them. The Avengers will be my full-time responsibility." He eyed Clint. "There are reasons for this decision, believe me."

"Which are?" Clint demanded. 

"For a start, no one person should be handling both. It was you or the Avengers and I made a call -- " Coulson broke off as Clint tossed his fork in his half-eaten bowl of pasta and stood up, walking away. "Clint!"

"You said we belonged to you," Clint said from the doorway. 

"I chose the team, I'm not going to apologize for that."

"Yeah, why would you," Clint retorted, walking into the living room, heading for the big glass windows along one wall. 

"You and Natasha will still be my responsibility."

"What does that mean, exactly?" Clint asked, turning. Coulson stood in the doorway, leaning on the jamb. 

"It means that I'll be here, in the Tower, with the Avengers. Your public image, health, and care will be my responsibility at any time you're not on a SHIELD-sanctioned op," Coulson said. "These are good reasons. This is the smart choice."

"Yeah, thanks. So what, I got the treatment tonight, are you taking Natasha out for dinner tomorrow to explain?" Clint asked. 

"Natasha knows."

Clint blinked at him.

"She's a practical woman. She understood the exigencies of the situation."

"Good for her. Guess I'm the special one."

"I had other reasons as well," Coulson said quietly, coming forward. "Believe it or not, yes, I made this decision with you in mind. Sitwell's a good handler. You've said so."

"He's not you."

"How often, exactly," Coulson said, sounding like he was making an effort at patience, "do you imagine you'll be on SHIELD ops after this? How often have you in the past seven months?"

Clint ducked his head. "Not often," he admitted. 

"Because you're an Avenger now."

"Yeah, well, that has its down sides," he said, thinking of the way other SHIELD agents treated him now, of the isolation that came with being an Avenger. Of course the team had stuck together. Who else did they have?

"You really care what the foot soldiers think?" Coulson asked, as if he could read his mind. "Do you understand why you're here?"

Clint glanced at him, gave him a humorless half-smile, and pointed at his eyes. 

"You are the elite," Coulson said. "You were always more important than the sum of your parts. And you are more important now than you were."

Clint turned to him. "That's what we are to you. The best soldiers. And you get to be the boss."

"As I a continually reminded, you aren't soldiers at all." 

"I never pegged you as the ambitious type."

"I'm not. I just go where I'm needed, usually," Coulson replied. "I made a selfish choice this once, I admit. But that's not ambition. It's just -- "

There was some emotion on his face that Clint couldn't identify, and wasn't sure he wanted to. 

"What is it?" he asked. "Don't feed me any bull, just tell me." 

Coulson sighed. To Clint's surprise, he reached for the shirt-button below his throat. 

"I need to show you something," he said, undoing the button. Clint glanced away. "Barton, it's all right."

"No, it's really not," Clint said. 

"You need to see."

"I don't."

"You -- "

"No!" Clint snapped, not just looking away but turning, staring out at the burning lights of nighttime Manhattan. 

"Clint," Coulson said sharply. Clint balled his fists. "Are you _angry_ with me? Not over the Avengers -- "

He sounded curious more than anything, which only made it worse. Clint didn't move.

"Angry I went after Loki? Or are you angry I came back?" Coulson asked, his voice not quite so hard now. 

"You had to go after him," Clint said tightly. "I get that. I'd have done the same. And it'd be stupid to be angry you came back."

"Stupid or not, if you are, you are."

"Don't handle me. I'm not Sitwell or Stark or Cap. I know you and I know when you're _fixing_ people."

"You don't want to be fixed?"

" _I mourned you!_ " Clint said desperately. "I came back and I fought and I went through the motions and I joined the god-damned team. I got fucking run out of HQ because I couldn't stop seeing you everywhere on the carrier. I went to your grave and I brought you -- " he heaved a breath, raising his hands to his face. "I brought you that stupid fucking Captain America shield and I said goodbye to you. I said goodbye. I left you behind and you know what?" he asked, not even realizing what a bad idea this was until the words came out. "I don't feel particularly bad about what happened with Loki because I fought it, I did. And it's done. But I went to your grave and _told you_ I was leaving you behind. I did that, I decided to do that. Then you came back and I hadn't kept faith. I gave up on you and you still came back. What kind of a man does that make me?" 

Coulson was silent, watching him, concern in his eyes. 

"I told you I loved you and I told you goodbye," Clint said. There. Now it was out in the open, no taking it back. He slid his hands up from his face, through his hair. "I should have just pushed through, carried that torch, but I was going crazy, and I couldn't. So I'm sorry. I'm sorry for your death and I'm sorry I'm in love with you and I'm sorry for abandoning you and I'm sorry I'm angry that you chose the Avengers over me but -- you said we were yours. Is this -- is this punishment?"

"No," Coulson said softly.

"Anyway, it doesn't matter," Clint said wildly. "I don't want to see all the shit I did to you."

He didn't even notice that Coulson had come up to him, was standing so close he could feel the heat from his body, until a hand touched his chin, turning him forcibly. He followed the pull because he always had, couldn't say no, and found Coulson's eyes on his. 

"I was dead," Coulson said steadily. "You did what you had to do. What you thought I would want you to do. Yes?"

Clint nodded. 

Coulson pressed the pad of his thumb to Clint's chin, tugging his head down. "Look, Clint. It's all right." 

The shirt was undone almost to the waist now, and he expected -- something, a shiny raised scar, even a still-healing wound on Coulson's chest, and he would have deserved that. But when he finally pulled his eyes down what he saw instead was a patch of black edging out from under the vertical seam of the shirt. He lifted his fingers, pulling the fabric aside, and hissed in a breath. 

There was no scar, not even a marred patch of skin. Instead, on his pectoral, there was a tattoo -- a dark black circle, with the rising eagle insignia of SHIELD inside it. 

"What..." he started, unsure what he was even intending to ask. 

"Scared the hell out of me the first time I took my shirt off," Coulson said.

"I've seen you without a shirt on. That wasn't there before." 

"No, it wasn't. I came back with it."

"How did I miss it?"

"You were trying not to look."

That hurt, but it was fair enough. He had been. "You know why it's there?"

"Look closer," Coulson said. Clint stared at the tattoo, transfixed. He felt Coulson's thumb slide along his lip. 

"I'm not good at saying certain things," Coulson continued, as Clint studied the image. There was something not quite right about it, something off from the SHIELD eagle he'd seen so often he practically filtered it out of his consciousness now. "It was one reason Miranda...well. Her and others, but no need to talk about that. And even if I weren't...terrible at this, you were my asset. You needed to be able to trust me."

"It's different..." Clint replied, hardly hearing him. 

"The head," Coulson said. 

It struck him all at once, the changes in shape and line. The beak of the bird was rounder, the very tip angled down. The tail was narrower, and even the shape of the breast was slimmer. 

"It's a hawk," Clint whispered. 

"Gold star, Hawkeye," Coulson replied, voice almost as soft. His fingers, still curled around Clint's jaw, tightened and lifted his face, holding him steady. "When I was dying, the very last thought I had was that I was so sorry I was letting you down. That I couldn't bring you back in."

"Coulson -- "

"Phil," he corrected. His eyes scanned over Clint's face. "I had to give you up. I had to trade being your handler for this chance, because I died without taking it, and I'm not going to make that mistake twice. Do you understand?"

His heart was going a mile a minute, and he felt dizzy, but he did understand. Without hesitation, without a shadow of a doubt, there was a hawk over Phil Coulson's heart and he was forgiven everything. Loki and the attack, the aftermath, his goodbye at the grave, all of it forgiven, no need to even ask. Losing his handler wasn't punishment; it was a trade for a gain. 

The guilt and grief lifted off him like water evaporating away. 

"We're idiots," he blurted. "We could have done this years ago."

Phil shook his head. "If there's one thing resurrection has taught me," he said, with a slight tilt of his lips, "It's that everything happens in its own time."

"Now?" Clint asked.

"Now," Phil agreed, and slid his thumb down over Clint's chin again, leaning in to kiss him. 

Clint clutched at his shoulders and Phil opened his mouth, tilting his head for a better angle. It pounded in his pulse -- _forgiven, I'm forgiven_. It had the acrid tang of his submission to Loki, the total serene peace of giving up his will, but this wasn't Loki. This was Phil, and he trusted Phil. Everything would be fine. 

"That's it," Phil said coaxingly, as if he needed the encouragement.

"Stay here," Clint mumbled, pressing their foreheads together. "Don't go."

"Not going anywhere," Phil assured him. "How could I? You came back to us."

He had never really managed to think of it that way -- mired in his own grief and fear, he'd never processed that for Natasha, and especially for Phil, he had been the one who'd gone missing, the one who'd been lost. Now it struck him full-on what that must have done to them, what Phil must have been thinking when he'd gone after Loki alone. 

He pulled away, drawing in a huge breath. Even at SHIELD, where he'd built a network of people, where he'd found people to care about, he'd never thought what happened to him affected others. What he did, sure, but what was done to him -- how could it? Nobody had cared if he'd lived or died, not much, not until -- 

Not until Coulson. 

"Clint?" Phil asked, looking worried. He still had a hand on him, grounding him, but it was at arm's length now. "Are you -- "

Clint staggered back and sat down heavily on the edge of the coffee table, legs unwilling to hold him any longer. For the first time he could remember he felt secured -- anchored in place, tied to a single life, and he could see time stretching out ahead of him. A safe place to live, people who would care, people who _had_ cared, a team and a family and a precious single ounce of security. It was a high better than any adrenaline rush. Christ, no wonder people fought so hard for stability if this was how it felt. 

"Clint!" 

Phil was kneeling in front of him, hands on his jaw, eyes worried. Clint leaned forward and butted their heads together again, trying to breathe steadily. 

"Do you love me?" he asked, and before he could get a reply, just in case, he added, "You don't have to say it, it's fine, I get it, you can just say -- no, or yes -- "

"Yes. Of course, yes. This is different, it's new -- new for us, I mean, but -- yes, Clint." And Phil's lips turned up a little. "Do you think I would have gone and hauled you out of Budapest if I didn't?" 

"That was -- "

"Years ago." 

Clint took another shuddering breath. He felt exhausted, as if all the years of wariness and loneliness had caught up with him at once.

"Nick almost fired me for that," Phil added, and Clint laughed instead of bursting into tears. "Natasha and I blew four years of intel to get you back." 

Clint nosed against his cheek, his breath finally evening out. 

"I never -- "

"I know," Phil answered. 

"And now -- "

"I know that too," Phil said. "Shh, easy," he added, cradling Clint's head against his cheek. "You held it together and did the job and you put it behind you. I would have told you to. I'm not angry you said goodbye. I'm proud of you. I always was." 

Clint nodded against his shoulder, let Phil take his slumping weight.

"Does it hurt?" he asked. 

"The mark? No. Though Nick laughed when he saw it. Called me a company man." Phil stroked his hair once, quickly, almost furtive. "You want to finish eating now?"

"I'm so tired," Clint mumbled. It felt like an effort just to breathe. "Can I sleep?"

"Not on my coffee table," Phil said, and Clint managed a snuffling laugh. "Come on."

Clint let himself be led to the bedroom, stripped down to his boxers and shirt like a child, Phil's hands skimming over the lines tanned into his arm by his wrist guard, the rough patches on his fingers, the still-healing bruises from the fight at Arlington. There wasn't anything sexual in the touches, and when Clint went to pull off his t-shirt, Phil caught the hem in his fingers and held it there firmly. 

"You need to sleep," he said. "I'll be right there." 

A few minutes later he found himself curled up in the blankets, face tucked into Phil's bare shoulder, neck bent just enough that he could see the tattoo rise and fall with Phil's breathing. 

"I used to wonder," Phil said quietly, as Clint watched the slow, hypnotic movement. "What it would take to -- make you feel safe, make you believe you weren't alone. It hurt to watch you. Natasha helped, I know. But I used to worry that someday you'd figure it out and nobody would be there to say _yes, that's how it is_. And that little window of opportunity would just close, forever." 

"Don't leave again," Clint said. 

"Rest. I won't go anywhere." 

Clint stole a hand across his body, over his stomach, fingers spread to soak up the warmth. He felt Phil trace the pale lines left by his wrist-guard, light and absent, as he slipped into sleep.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't realize people thought the last chapter was the _last_ chapter. There are still a few to go!

When Clint woke, it was dark out. Judging by the color of the sky through the windows, it was just before sunrise. He'd never been one for slow waking -- after a few days without sleep there was a fuzzy, hazy zone one could fall into, but failing that it was either alert or dead asleep. He knew where he was, and why he was there. Phil's bed. Phil's skin under his cheek. The tattoo was only a few inches from his eyes. 

He lifted a hand and traced the design lightly -- the black circle around it, and then each delicate stylized feather, the hook of the beak, the smooth slope of the head. It was small enough he could cover it with his palm. 

"I wasn't all that keen about magic," he said, because he knew Phil was awake even if his breathing hadn't changed. "I'm coming around to the idea."

"Magic is just science we don't understand yet," Phil said sleepily. 

"I think Arthur C. Clarke said it a little more elegantly."

"I've been awake for eight seconds," Phil replied, rolling onto his side, half-dislodging Clint only to pull him close, a hand splayed in the small of his back. "Feeling better?"

"Much."

"You're making very free."

"Taking liberties?" Clint asked.

"No. If I didn't want you here, you wouldn't be here." Phil studied him. "Should have expected it, actually. You've never been someone who takes half measures." 

"Never saw the point," Clint replied, yawning. "Anything worth doing is worth overdoing." 

"Or not doing at all."

"Casting a few stones there, Phil."

"Our situations aren't that similar," Phil said, and when Clint caught his gaze, tilted his head a little. "Maybe. Possibly." 

"You really didn't say anything because I was your asset?"

"You had to trust me. You don't trust easily." He blinked sleep out of his eyes, regarding Clint steadily. "Why didn't you?"

"Thought about it. Almost did a couple of times. You were always with someone, though, and I'm not that guy." Clint closed his eyes. "Didn't think you'd go for it, maybe."

They were stretched out, touching chest-to-thigh, and Phil shifted, sliding one knee between Clint's. Clint huffed, half-hard already, and kissed him. 

"Distracting me with sex?" he asked.

"It's a traditional SHIELD counterintelligence technique," Phil replied, running one hand up to cup the back of his head. "Wouldn't expect you to fall for it."

"Well, I got rusty without you around."

"Hm. Don't believe that," Phil said, tilting his head to nose along Clint's neck. There was a puff of warm air and then he licked, fixed his mouth on Clint's pulse point and grazed his teeth on it. Clint tipped his head back and rolled his body, and Phil bit down harder.

"You are _mine_ ," Phil muttered into his skin, and Clint's hips bucked. Oh, god, this was good, and there was so much in his future now -- no bitter tinge of _enjoy it while it lasts_ , no hesitance. "And I only take the best." 

"Jesus Christ, Phil," Clint groaned, tugging on his hips to bring them closer together, dying for more touch. It wasn't fast, exactly, but it was intense: the push of their bodies, the firm line of Phil's dick rubbing against his, even through Clint's boxers and -- 

He ducked his head against Phil's shoulder, looking down the line of their entwined bodies, and a laugh rose up in his chest.

"Are you wearing _Captain America_ pajamas?" he managed, sliding his fingers under the thin, worn flannel of the waistband. "My god, you are such a nerd, I'm in love with a fanboy -- "

Phil growled and shoved him onto his back, the full weight of him pinning Clint down. He bit him again, on the smooth round of his shoulder this time, and Clint wrapped his legs around Phil's hips, arching. 

"You're beautiful," Phil said in his ear, one hand tugging on his boxers. "But you have this unfortunate habit of talking."

"You love it," Clint groaned. "I knew you did, I knew all that no-chatter-on-comms stuff was bullshit -- "

"Yeah, I do," Phil replied, moving faster now, breath coming in short, hard pants. He'd said he was bad at this -- bad at saying things -- he'd all but said other people had left him over it. But Clint had his number now. And besides, who fucking cared how he said it?

"You love it," he repeated, wriggling enough to get his underwear down his thighs, tugging on Phil's pajamas (so, so much teasing later). He got a hand around them together and stroked, fast and a little ruthless. "You fucking adore me." 

"Fuck, Clint -- " 

"You're marked," Clint said, and then leaned up enough to whisper in his ear. "Got me under your skin."

Phil stiffened, went silent and breathless, and then pushed down hard into Clint's hand and came, slick and wet, all over Clint's belly. Clint moaned and let go, let the rush sweep over him and pull him under. 

Phil ducked his head, pressed it into Clint's sternum, and just breathed for a moment; finally, with a grunt, he rolled off onto his back, hitching his pants back up. Clint lay there for a while, a happy mess, until he eventually squirmed out of his underwear and began wiping himself down with them.

"So," he said. Phil glanced at him. "Pancakes?"

The reaction he got was actually shocking; a deep, genuine laugh, freer than he'd ever heard from Phil before. 

"I do like you in my kitchen," Phil said. Clint hummed thoughtfully, reaching up with an arm to pull his head over against his shoulder. Phil went -- awkwardly, but he went. 

"When you came back," Clint said, quietly.

"Yes?"

"You thought you were in Iraq."

"Being fair to me, there were a lot of explosions." Phil shifted. "I don't have flashbacks, if that's what you're asking."

"Not exactly. I'd know by now, anyway. I wouldn't care." 

"Good to know."

"You swore a blue streak."

"It was the culture. Machismo, obscenity. Repression. Coping mechanisms." Phil bent into it when Clint ruffled his hair a little. "SHIELD was a relief after the Army. The Director's never put much stock in swagger. He likes competence."

"He's not alone." Clint exhaled. "So that's not...who you are. Not really."

"I'm much less deep than anyone likes to believe," Phil said. "What you see is what you get. I'm too old and too busy to waste energy on anything else." 

"You're not old."

"Eight years older than you."

"You don't seem to mind."

"Too old to give a damn," Phil said, and gently disengaged himself from Clint's grip, easing out of the bed. "I'll make the coffee. You need a shower." 

Clint got himself upright, stretching, and caught Phil as he made his way towards the door, kissing him again. Phil's fingers patted gently on the flat of his chest, and then he pushed away.

"Shower. Coffee when you get out, and then I want pancakes."

* * *

Clint would have been happy to spend the day in bed, or at the very least on couch, but Phil had evaluations that had to be performed on the Helicarrier, and there was the minor inconvenience of his family. 

"I knew you had a sister," Clint said, when Phil dropped the bomb over breakfast that he was going to be leaving New York from the Helicarrier. "I didn't know you had parents. How didn't I know you have parents?"

"I didn't hatch from an egg in a lab," Phil replied, amused. Clint liked this new smile he was seeing, this wide, unreserved smile, still quiet the way Phil was always quiet but...less restrained. A smile just for him. "Given what we do, less is more when it comes to personal information. They're not in my file. Neither is Elizabeth. You only know about her because you caught me with that photo-message."

That had been an awesome day. The photo was of a woman in a hospital bed holding a baby, captioned HI UNCLE. Clint and Natasha had called him Uncle Agent Coulson for a week. 

"And they don't know you're alive? If I had parents I liked I'd have been on the phone to them the minute I could steal a phone."

"SHIELD had good reason to wait. They wanted to make sure I didn't re-die on them. And that it was actually me."

"Fury was right," Clint said.

"Hm?"

"You really are a company man."

"It made sense. Anyway, today should fix things. They have one more scan to run me through and then I'm officially back from the dead. From there I'm on a jet to Chicago to see them."

Clint narrowed his eyes. "You're not just going to show up on their doorstep, are you? Because that'd be dramatic, but probably kind of mean."

"No. There'll be an official call from SHIELD to notify them before I arrive."

"Do they know what you do?" 

Phil looked oddly troubled. "Enough not to ask further. My mother worked for the State Department. They understand."

"Going to tell them what happened?"

"An edited version," Phil replied. "Missing in action, recovered after a lengthy and boring imprisonment. Though..."

Clint watched him patiently. He thought about how he'd feel if Barney was still around, and if he had a kid. Clint liked kids in the abstract. 

"I think they need to know more about what I do. It's absurd to think my face will stay off the cameras forever," Phil said. "That should be a fascinating conversation."

"What, _By the way, I'm Captain America's boss and I'm banging Hawkeye_?"

"That would certainly get a reaction." Phil sighed. 

"So what are their names? Are they cool? Like, do they do cool retired old people stuff?"

Phil raised an eyebrow. "Do you want to come?"

"Yes," Clint replied immediately. "But I won't," he added. "You're back from the dead, this should be all about you. I can be your gay surprise some other time."

The look on Phil's face said he'd touched a nerve. 

"Do they, uh..."

"I think they hoped it was a phase," Phil said quietly. "I've never made a secret out of it -- well. Before the Army, I never did. When I was serving, I had to. And there weren't many men after that. But enough all told that they were aware. They were...that unsettling kind of _concerned_ about it. I don't know if you've noticed, but I am not someone who stands out in a crowd."

"I'd never have guessed," Clint deadpanned. 

"That's my upbringing. Be quiet, be competent, do not disturb. Blend in. Don't threaten the way things are. And the way things are in their world, unfortunately, does not include a son who sucks dick."

Clint choked on his waffle. 

"Was that indelicate?" Phil asked mildly.

* * *

The end result of it -- all of it, the exhausting night and glorious morning and the feeling of having done something noble and good in sending Phil off without him -- was that Clint spent the day sulking. He wouldn't admit to moping, but sulking, yes. 

He went to the range but couldn't focus, and Natasha and Steve were hogging the gym. Well, okay, Steve didn't hog anything, and even Natasha couldn't work out on more than one machine at a time, but Clint wasn't in the mood to talk to people. Eventually he popped the grate on the vent in his bedroom and hoisted himself into the ductwork. A few hours spent mapping another few levels of Stark Tower would distract him. 

Smokey caught up with him on the Stark Industries executive floor, or rather just over the top of it. Clint hung out there for a while, Smokey curled up on his head like a warm humming baseball hat, both of them watching couriers and businessmen come and go in the lobby. 

Clint wondered what life was like when you were a normal person. He wondered if this was the kind of thing the Coulsons had envisioned for their son. A little power, a good paycheck, something harmless and unlikely to ever be earthshaking. He wondered if they'd be more _concerned_ about their son's boyfriend or about his job giving orders to the Avengers. 

Phil was probably in the air; no point in texting. 

Pepper, now, she wasn't any more normal than they were. Definitely a woman who shook the Earth. Clint crawled forward, Smokey beeping inquisitively before he climbed off Clint's head to follow. Together they slipped through the duct into the private office of Pepper Potts. Tony was there, fiddling with some executive toy on her desk. 

"Green energy is not a go for broke business," Pepper was saying. "It's a slow build and it's going to be decades before everyone pulls their heads out of their asses and gets with the program."

"That's why we built this," Tony replied. "Do I need to forcibly dislodge some heads? I'm going to need latex gloves." 

"And yet you won't do the amount of publicity I think we need -- "

"Little busy defending the world from aliens," Tony pointed out.

" -- despite the fact that you have time to sit here and get in my way."

"Well, I make time for the important things." 

Clint rested his chin on his wrists and smiled. Good theater, those two. 

"My point is that we need the StarkPhone and the StarkPad and Stark Medical Technologies to pick up the slack while we wait for the Reactor Technology ship to come in. I'm not trying to push anyone to get the new code through before it's ready but we can't afford to push back release dates either."

"The code on the new phone release is three months out. Nothing's getting pushed back." 

"Three months in code is five months in the real world, Tony, you know this. Far be it from me to tell you to lock yourself in a lab more than you already do, but if you could just focus on the code for a few weeks it'd get the phone out on time and keep you in one place because frankly, I am also worried that Steve is going to freak out any second now." 

Clint blinked. Pepper and Tony didn't know the meaning of the word segue, true, but that was a little abrupt and weird. As far as he knew, Steve didn't give a fuck about computer code. 

"He's Captain America. Captain America doesn't freak out," Tony said.

"He's Steve, Tony, and he's still getting used to this century and I'm sure the two of us jumping and molesting him two days ago didn't help."

Clint startled -- not badly enough to give away his presence, but badly enough to jostle Smokey, who poked him in the butt cheek with one of his little crawly legs. 

Oh man, Natasha was _right_. 

"There was no molesting, that implies he wasn't capable of consent. What we did was fuck the hell out of him with his enthusiastic participation and good for us because first, it is totally going to remove the stick he still sometimes insists on having up his ass, and second, being around me more can only be good for him, and also I'm sorry do you not remember last night? He was pretty game."

Clint watched as Pepper gave Tony a look so dry it was practically sandy. 

"Yes. He was. With me," she said. 

"He totally let me -- "

"Tony."

"What? Seriously what. He is super-fine with gay sex, he's just easing into it. Not that I blame him, the first time I was with a dude I thought I _smelled gay_ the next day. Granted I was sixteen and an idiot, and let's have a round of applause for my personal growth in the last twenty years -- "

"Twenty-two," Pepper put in.

"Thank you, I was rounding down. He's fine with it. Slap a rainbow necklace on him and we'll make him grand marshal of the Pride parade. Hey, we should totally do that, that's a great photo op. Cap'd be up for it."

"Tony!"

Tony looked surly. Clint hoped they were going to keep arguing about it. Maybe there would be details. 

"I don't want him to think he's having an affair with me while you happen to be in the room," Pepper said quietly. "That's why I want you here, in the Tower, around him, and I think you should have some time alone with him."

Tony's voice was stricken. "Pep, it's not -- you and I, we're solid, right?"

Pepper bent over and kissed him, then smacked him in the back of the head with one hand.

"We're very solid, Tony, that was the point of all this. We're solid enough that you and Steve can have a night or two without me. Just to make sure he understands it's allowed. He's not a guest. Don't worry, I'll collect eventually." 

"I am going to buy you something large and embarrassing," Tony said. 

"Tony."

"Like a park or a Monet or something."

"I don't like Monet."

"I'm buying you a Monet. We're going to hang it in the Met with Gift of Pepper Potts, Sexiest Woman Alive underneath it. With a little picture of you in that bra that shows off your freckles."

Clint bit his fist to keep from laughing. 

"Is that what it shows off?" Pepper asked innocently. 

"You have truly remarkable freckles. Buy a Monet. On me."

"I'm not buying a Monet."

"Maybe a Seurat, that would be in line with the whole freckles theme."

"I'm definitely not hanging any art next to a picture of me in my underwear in the Met." Pepper leaned against her desk. "Tomorrow night we're doing another Avengers dinner. It fosters positive public relations and it's good for the team. Natasha and I are going out for drinks afterward to score all of you in order of hotness, and you are going to take Steve home and make sure he feels loved and possibly teach him how to find a prostate. Yours or his, I'm not picky and I know you're not."

Clint had never seen Tony praying, but his expression was the very definition of a man having a spiritual experience. 

"I have never wanted to fuck you over this desk more than at this very moment," Tony said. 

"That's a lie."

"Yes, it is, I constantly want to fuck you over this desk. Every time I come in here, it's all I think about." 

"That's because you have self-control issues. Go write some code, I have work to do."

Clint took advantage of Tony's exit to slide backwards into the vent junction. He dropped down a level, settled into a corner just behind a horizontal fan, and considered life. 

There was, of course, unparalleled opportunity presenting itself for "fucking with Tony Stark's head", which Clint did enjoy. But it took a special kind of asshole to be mean to Steve, and from the sound of things whatever the three of them were cooking up in the bedroom was pretty fragile. Besides, Pepper could be scary and she and Phil were close. 

Nuts. The worst thing about being a spy was that you couldn't ever make use of 90% of what you heard. 

Still, there was Tasha. He pulled out his phone. _The eagle has landed._

Natasha, never one to overuse language, texted back _???_

_Steve. Pepper. Tony._

_Visual confirmation? Pervert._

He was texting back when a message came through from Phil. 

_Landed in Chicago_ and then, in a separate message, _And yes._

Clint shot him a quick _Love you too_. 

No reply, but a second later there was another message from Natasha.

_Details, Barton. Details._

Clint grinned smugly to himself. "Smokey, find Natasha for me?"

Smokey beeped and took off at a clip down a duct.


	8. Chapter 8

That evening, after wearing himself out with Natasha speculating on the many permutations and positions that two superheroes and the CEO of a huge tech corporation could get into, Clint was lying on his couch sulking (not moping) some more when his phone went off. 

He groaned and stretched over to pick it up, then smiled. Phil calling. Nearly midnight in New York; eleven o'clock in Chicago. 

"I thought you were tearfully reuniting with your bereaved," he said, answering. 

"Hello," Phil said softly. "Everyone's asleep. Well, Jamie probably isn't, I don't think he sleeps. He might be a mutant."

"Jamie's the nephew, yes?"

"He's four. He's very excited and not sure why."

"Why are you whispering?"

"The walls are thin."

"So, no phone sex?" 

"No, Clint," Phil said, but he sounded like he was smiling. Clint could tell these things. 

"How'd it go?"

"It went well. Surprisingly easy compared to my usual visits. Mostly." 

"Good," Clint said, and there was a pause.

"I mentioned you," Phil said finally.

"Jesus, I told you -- "

"It came up. I wasn't going to lie."

"How does your sex life just come up?"

"My mother asked if I'd told Miranda. I said she'd get a call, but we weren't seeing each other. Dad decided to matchmake and I said I was seeing someone. They are not people who let that kind of thing go." 

"How'd it go?"

"Awkwardly. They asked Elizabeth to take Jamie out of the room."

"Holy shit, Phil."

"Could have been worse. I think they're just happy I'm alive. So in that sense the timing was excellent. Besides, as Mom pointed out, at least you're...decent." 

"Excuse me?" Clint asked. 

"You're a hero," Phil said. Now he definitely sounded amused. "And you work for the government. Automatic approval."

Clint rubbed his eyes. "Crap, Phil."

"It's fine. I've stood up to much worse than vaguely concerned remarks from my parents. I mentioned the Avengers, the subject changed, we're all relieved and I spent the next hour answering questions about Captain America." Another pause. "Is this strange?"

"What?"

"The speed of this. The...certainty."

"No, I don't think so," Clint said. "We've lived in each others' pockets for years. We know each other better than most people do, at least I think so. Or maybe it is fast, but I can't really fucking care. If it's weird, we're in it together. We don't do ordinary, we never have." 

He hadn't really figured on telling Phil about what he'd heard that day. It wasn't his place, and he'd only told Natasha because....well, it was Natasha. At the same time....

"Cap's sleeping with Tony," he said. 

" _What?_ "

"And Pepper. In a threesome. Like in an indy movie or something."

"Did they announce this?"

"Not as such. I happened to overhear." 

"Clint, you can't blurt that kind of thing out."

"Look, I'm just saying, it's proof, right?"

"Of what?" Phil asked. 

"I don't know. Us. This whole thing. There is no roadmap for any of this, we are firmly off road here, and everyone's making shit up as we go along. So we've had zero dates and not nearly enough sex and we're in love, meanwhile Captain America is bisexual and went for the bad boy and the bad boy's girlfriend, and one of the greatest living scientific minds of our generation is possibly pining for a spy who knows how to kill people using those decorative toothpicks they put in club sandwiches."

"Morocco was a good time," Phil said.

"Yeah it was. Don't change the subject." 

"Clint, one of your many fine qualities is that you can monologue extensively without the subject ever actually becoming clear." 

Clint sighed. "It's just...if we don't know how long this is going to last or how well it's going to go, why worry? I have no problem with moving fast. As long as you don't."

"I don't."

"Well, okay. What time are you home tomorrow?"

"Around two."

"We're doing Avengers Dinner Out tomorrow night. You're explicitly invited. Be my secret date. Or my public date, but secret is more fun." 

"Never unwilling to dine on Stark's tab. Try not to get the city blown up until I'm home."

"We'll do our best. Want me to meet you on the carrier?"

"No, I'll have them drop me at the Tower. Sleep well, Clint."

"Better if you were here."

There was a soft noise. Clint knew he was pushing it a little, maybe edging into that weird, repressed edge of Phil's comfort zone. 

"Wish I was," Phil said. "Good night."

"Night," Clint said, pleased, and hung up.

* * *

Phil had said he'd be home by two, but Clint took no chances. He grabbed a thermos of coffee around noon and climbed up to the very top of Stark Tower, above the landing pads, and settled in to wait. This, at least, he had practice in.

Smokey found him pretty quickly and clicked his way up the antenna Clint was leaning against. Apparently the antenna got radio; every now and then Smokey would blurt out news reports in some far-distant DJ's voice. For a while he played some top-notch AM-band mariachi music. Then, just as Clint sighted a dark speck on the horizon, Smokey went still and burbled, _Agent Barton._

"What's up, JARVIS?" Clint asked, not moving. 

_SHIELD is requesting permission to land. ETA is five minutes._

"Nice. Am I gonna fuck up their instrumentation from up here?"

 _No, Agent Barton. Please remain stationary._ Smokey disengaged two legs from the antenna and wrapped them firmly around Clint's neck, pinning him where he sat. 

The minijet landed without fuss a few minutes later and Phil climbed out, leaning back to speak to the pilot briefly. Once it had lifted off, he glanced around, looking tired. Clint tugged and Smokey let go of the antenna, all four legs now secured around Clint's throat and shoulders. The robot hung on tightly as Clint skidded and slid his way down to the pad. 

"Hey," he said, as Phil caught sight of him. "How was the flight?"

"Peaceful," Phil replied, some of the fatigue leaving his face. Clint wasn't sure he was allowed to kiss him -- they hadn't really discussed what anyone else was going to know about them -- so he stood there awkwardly, doing a covert inspection for injury. Smokey beeped.

"I'm gone for a night and you get a pet?" Phil asked, lifting an eyebrow.

"This is Smokey," Clint replied. "He's been around a few days. Tony built him to make sure Natasha and I don't get into trouble in the ducts."

"How's that working out?"

"I've flipped him. He works for me now."

"Good," Phil said, smiling. "It's freezing out here," he added, and caught one of Clint's hands in his, just long enough for Clint to feel the warmth before he let go. "You're cold. Come inside. Ditch the robot."

"Smokey, ducts," Clint ordered, and Smokey dropped to the ground, scuttling into a vent and vanishing from view. "So, the family see you off decently?"

Phil offered him his phone, a photograph queued up. Clint looked down at it greedily, eager to see more of this weird other life Phil had, even if he wasn't feeling terribly charitable towards the rest of Clan Coulson at the moment. 

Phil was at the center, holding a small blond child with one arm -- that'd be Jamie, the excitable nephew. There was a woman next to him Clint recognized from the other long-ago photograph as his sister. On his other side stood a strong-jawed, grey-haired woman with Phil's eyes; a slightly shorter man next to her had an arm around her waist. Phil's head was turned, pressing a kiss to Jamie's temple. 

"They look nice," Clint said, wondering what it was like to have a blood family like that.

"They are, usually," Phil replied, pocketing the phone. "Which is not to say I don't sometimes want to strangle them." 

"I'll come with you next time."

"Yes, that'll make things better," Phil said drily.

"I spent years as a showman. I will charm their faces off, you watch." 

"I don't doubt," Phil answered, leaning into him tiredly as the elevator doors shut behind them. Clint kissed his forehead, felt Phil's hands twine in the hem of his jacket. 

Without their word, JARVIS took them to the guest quarters Phil was staying in, and Phil pulled back with a sigh, heading for the bedroom. Clint followed, keeping a little distance. By the time he reached it, Phil's coat and shirt were off, the tattoo dark on his skin. Clint rested a hand over it and kissed him again, leaning in. 

He felt Phil inhale sharply through his nose and then tug him forward. Dating someone just as strong and sneaky as him was going to be _fun_ , he thought fondly, as Phil manhandled him out of his clothes.

* * *

Dinner that night was even better than the last one. For a start, they were in public, and Tony and Pepper made Steve sit between them. Bruce -- who Clint was 99% sure also knew about The Threesome, which meant Thor was the odd man out -- was smoldering at Natasha, who was smoldering right back. Thor was just awesome to feast with. 

And Phil sat next to him and did not even stab him in the thigh when he started stealing food off his plate. Clint enjoyed himself hugely. 

"Scuse me," someone said, as they were standing to leave, and Clint twisted around to find a teenage girl standing behind him. "You're the Avengers, right?"

"Plus friends," Clint replied, smiling. 

"And...you're Hawkeye." 

Clint raised his eyebrows. "That's right." 

"Can I have your autograph?"

There was momentary silence amongst the superheroes.

"Uh, mine?" Clint asked. "'Cause Tony Stark's...right over there, and Captain America -- " 

The girl offered him a slip of paper and a pen. There was an arrow tattooed on one wrist. 

"Ah," he said, tapping it. She blushed. "You're an archer?"

"Yessir. Kyudo."

"Zen. Very nice. Look, Phil, I totally have fans. What's your name?"

Phil murmured something polite as Clint signed the paper _To Kate_ and passed it back to her. The others were already filing out -- Thor had been stopped by some other autograph hunter, and Tony was having a word with the head waiter, but apparently Cap had bolted as soon as it became clear Autographs Would Be Requested. Clint couldn't blame him, but the sensation for him was still novel enough to be flattering. 

Outside, in the cool night air, the party was breaking up. Steve had hailed a cab and was holding it for Tony and Thor, but the others were at the valet stand, waiting for them to bring Tony's Rolls around (that was a sweet car, no lie). Phil was heading for the cab, but Clint caught his arm lightly and leaned in. 

"Hey," he said. "Pepper's taking Bruce and Natasha out to try and set them up, and I get to help. Wanna come along?" 

He could see the conflict in Phil's face, though another person probably wouldn't. It had taken him a long time to learn to read his handler. 

"You don't have to," he added. 

"It's not -- I'm just tired," Phil said softly. "It's not that I don't want to. I'd like to go home and rest. I'm not much for bars."

"I can -- "

"Clint. It's fine," he said with a smile. "I'm going to do some catch-up work and maybe sleep, that's all. Very boring for you. Go, have fun. Come home when you're done, and I'll be there."

Clint swallowed and nodded. "Give you a rundown tomorrow," he said. In the background he heard Pepper call _Clint!_

"Coming!" he yelled, but he waited until Phil was in the cab, on his way back to the Tower, before he turned and joined the others. 

Going out with Natasha was usually a good time, and it felt good to be conspiring with Pepper. He genuinely liked Bruce, and thought he'd be good for Natasha, as good as she'd be for him, but he was also not above a little mischief. Just for fun, he seeded the conversation once in a while with suggestions for utterly inappropriate dates for Bruce, since Tony kept talking about setting him up anyway. SHIELD agents, ex-girlfriends, strippers he happened to know. Most of those were made up; Clint didn't know any strippers. At least, not anymore. 

He could admit he may have overdone the drinking a little, but he put it down to making sure he and Pepper spent a lot of time at the bar, leaving Natasha and Bruce alone to talk. Plus his tolerance was shit. He was a pilot and a marksman, which didn't leave much leeway for alcohol consumption. Towards the end of the night his memories were a little patchy, but he recalled stumbling with Pepper and Natasha into the car, and settling in with his head on Natasha's shoulder, listening to Bruce's pop music on the radio. 

When they pulled into the garage of the Tower, Clint opened his eyes and smiled. Phil was sitting on one of Tony's cars, messing with his phone, looking completely at home and not even annoyed at all. 

He heard Bruce talking, distantly, but he was focusing on getting upright -- Phil was helping, that was awful nice -- and once he was on his feet, he concentrated on staying there. He felt warm and satisfied and like he could be friends with the entire world.

"Hey, baby," he slurred, nuzzling into Phil's hair. It smelled good. Phil shifted, and Clint saw Bruce staring at them; he tried to stare back, but he felt a little dizzy.

"The heart is a mysterious thing," he heard Phil say, and Bruce laughed distantly. Clint stayed where he was, secure and pleased. 

"Tasha an' Pepper need help," he mumbled.

"Bruce is taking care of it," Phil said, steering him towards the elevator. "Baby, huh?"

"Mmhm," Clint agreed. 

"Are you planning to make a habit of that?"

"Baby," Clint repeated, snorting with laughter. "Sweetie. _Gorgeous_ ," he added, as Phil tried to lean him on the wall of the elevator. He wrapped his arms around Phil's shoulders and pulled him in, keeping him close. "I think I'm too drunk," he added, as the motion of the elevator caught up with him and his stomach lurched. 

"You do smell like a distillery," Phil agreed, stroking his hair. He must like that. He did it a lot. 

"You know what I know?" Clint asked, as they stumbled into -- his apartment, okay, that was fine. 

"I'm a little impressed you remember your own name right now," Phil replied. Clint turned and faced him, arms around his neck, foreheads pressed together. 

"You love me," Clint said. Phil was silent. "I'm not wrong. And I am nar..narciss...self-absorbed enough to say it even if you can't."

There was a hint of gratitude in Phil's eyes. 

"Where's my bed?" Clint added suddenly, looking around. "Did I lose it?"

"This way," Phil replied, dragging him forward. Clint was half-undressed and sitting on the bed before he looked up again.

"You love me and you have for years," he said, a little less certain now, but surely -- if Phil had dragged him out of Budapest and a million other ops and died and come back from the dead with Clint's mark on him...surely drunk and confident of being loved wouldn't scare him. "Don't you?"

Phil kissed him, but that wasn't an answer.

"Don't you?" Clint asked again. Phil pushed him into the blankets and then slid in next to him, without even being asked to stay or anything.

"Yes," he said. Clint sighed happily. 

"Gonna save the world with you," he mumbled. 

He was pretty sure he heard a quiet _I love you_ right before he passed out with his face planted in Phil's neck.

* * *

Clint is a man who sees patterns, who can look at data and draw conclusions, sometimes conclusions that surprise even him. If he can see people from far enough away, he can understand why they do what they do, and what they'll do next. That was always his problem; he never could get enough distance from his handler to see the way he watched him, the way he treated him _just_ different enough to be significant. It's an error, but it's not like he's going to make that one twice. 

He can see, now, the way the Avengers have become more than a team. It's been weeks since Phil came back, and things have settled, as much as they ever will, he supposes. They're just hanging out together tonight, watching some old movie Steve wanted to see, but it's more than that. 

Steve is folded into a corner of the couch, Pepper next to him with her feet in his lap, her head on Tony's shoulder. When he thinks nobody's looking (Clint is always looking) Tony's arm along the back of the couch shifts slightly, and he runs his fingers over the nape of Steve's neck. Natasha has her legs tucked up in the chair she has claimed so distinctly that nobody else will even sit in it anymore, but Bruce's head brushes her calves every so often from where he sits on the floor in front of it. He's working on an oversized StarkPad with Jane Foster, who Clint thinks is nice but kind of loud, a good fit for Thor; Jane's in awe of Bruce for some sciencey reason, and while Thor isn't exactly jealous, he is curled very close to Jane on the floor, watching soberly as if he understands what they're saying. Who knows? He's a god. Perhaps he does. Clint watches, and approves. 

Phil is not a demonstrative man. He prefers private shows of affection. He isn't sure why; just the way he is. He's tried, for Clint's sake, but Clint doesn't even seem to care that he fails more than he succeeds. It's a relief, finding someone who understands, but that's the least of the reasons he loves the man. (It's easier to admit it in his head.) Still, he does love him, and here in this safe place -- with this circle of people who understand being strange and different on an intimate level -- he can relax a little. Enough to be sitting on a couch of their own, watching the film while Clint sprawls across the cushions with his head in Phil's lap and watches the others. 

He doesn't have Clint's newfound certainty about the future. He's died once, and it taught him a lot about mortality. But then, he doesn't really need to have that much faith. He has what he wanted, and having it now is enough. The future will look after itself. Even if it can't, well. That's why they're here, after all. To look after the future. 

In the meantime, looking after each other isn't such a bad way to live.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this ended a little more quickly than I thought, but I realized I'd come to a pretty natural stopping-point. 
> 
> Thanks everyone for reading along, first with Come At Me and then encouraging me to write Take The Leap and Keep Your Balance. It's been a heck of a good time. :)


End file.
